Hero
by HoistTheColours
Summary: Sometimes he'll play the hero. Just for fun.
1. Chapter 1

**Hero**

It was cold, wet, and raining. The kind of night where steam rose from the sewer grates and cars drove down the road with their windshield wipers turned on full-speed. It was a typical evening in Gotham. School had just let out and it was nearly summer, meaning that there were a bunch of young, adolescent teenagers roaming around, bored to death (ha, _death_,) and looking to cause a little mayhem. There was a small group of them just up ahead, setting off car alarms and throwing rocks into the apartment building windows above them. They laughed in their drunken stupor when the glass broke and shattered over their heads. _So naïve,_ the Joker scoffed. They wanted to cause destruction and disorder but they didn't know how to properly do it.

The Joker thought that if he were in the right state, he might have waltzed over and shown them a few pointers. He'd give them a little _demonstration_, perhaps. Show them _real_ chaos, the kind that was so deafeningly loud that the explosion rung in your ears _days_ after. The kind where chunks of concrete and glass were rocketed into the sky and a torrent of black, thick smoke exploded into the night air. The kind of chaos where the fire was so staggeringly tall that the orange flames seemed to lick the very tips of the stars above.

Now _that _was chaos; none of this throwing rocks into windows shit.

_Amateurs._

He was tempted to just slaughter them all; put them out of their misery. He figured they wouldn't even feel a thing, most of them too drunk to even stand.

Against his better instincts, he turned away with a grimace when the pain in his side flared up again. Batman had been rougher than usual that evening, but the Joker wasn't complaining. They didn't get to see each other much, nowadays. Crime had skyrocketed, just like he'd always wanted, but he hadn't expected for it to be like this. Batman had become so preoccupied with trying to keep the underbelly of Gotham under control that he had forgotten about _him_, the Clown Prince of Crime.

The Joker tried, vainly, to get his attention. Two weeks ago, he'd set fire to an elementary school. He'd held all the children hostage, knowing that Batman had a weak spot for kids, what with his new, young sidekick, Robin, trailing at his heels like a helpless little puppy. But even despite that, Batman had never shown up, not even after the Joker had sent a video to GCN.

With a disappointed frown, the Joker realized that they had probably never aired the clip on television—he had been cutting out a little girl's entrails, after all.

The problem wasn't that his crimes weren't extravagant enough, the problem was that there was a new villain on the loose. _A girl_, the Joker bitterly scowled. The new villain was a stupid _girl_ who stole fucking _jewelry_. It was all so petty and childish. And that was all the Joker viewed her as—just some petty jewel thief who robbed the wealthy and made out like a bandit every time. But hell if he cared. She was no threat to him; she was just another lowly criminal trying to make it to the top. No one could ever top _him_, though. He thought that the people of Gotham would've learned that by now. He always took out the top dogs eventually. She'd be next on his list, the little burglar bitch. He was furious over the situation, really. He had gotten himself all dressed up for a night out on the town with his favorite rodent but then _she _had come along and ruined everything. He'd never met her, not yet, anyway, but he'd heard the gossip; heard that she'd gotten Bats wrapped around her little, leather-clad finger. That, though, was just a rumor. A rumor he was ignoring. Bats only had eyes for him, after all.

_Duh._

Batman had knocked him up quite violently earlier that evening though, and the Joker had the bruises to prove it. As he reached his hand inside his jacket and pressed it against his ribcage, he felt blood coat his fingers. _Great, just_ great.

He had just gotten his damn suit dry-cleaned, and with a snazzy outfit like his, it wasn't cheap to do, so he didn't appreciate all the blood. Batman had somehow managed to wedge one of his Batarangs right in-between his ribs and it stung annoyingly. Batman had been angry tonight, more so than usual, and he had taken his frustrations out on the Joker like he was some kind of personal punching bag. As much as the Joker adored their little get-togethers, he didn't really appreciate Batman's little meltdown. So he fought him back. And that's how he ended up like he was now, hunched over and clutching at his side in some dark, narrow alleyway, watching the drunk, teenage idiots trying to piss off their neighbors.

He was in too much pain to breathe let alone walk, and it was getting harder to stand with each passing second. Batman had also gotten him in the leg, too; he'd taken the Joker's own knife and used it against him, burying it into his thigh. It wasn't a deep intrusion, not like the gash in his ribs, but it was still going to need stitches. The pain had been welcoming at first, as it always was, but now it was annoying and he wanted it to go away.

Grunting in discomfort, he leaned against the brick wall for support, still clutching his side. Uninterestedly, he happened to glance upwards, and that's when he noticed the fire-escape. The ladder, conveniently enough, was already let down. If he crawled up it and luck happened to be on his side, he figured that one of those windows up there might be unlocked. He needed a place to crash and gather his bearings, just for a few hours. If he was really lucky, the owners wouldn't even be home and he wouldn't have to worry about staining the carpet with their unfortunate demise.

He limped over to the ladder, (it was such a pathetic sight, him being the Clown Prince of Crime and all, so he'd rather you not picture it, if you please,) and grabbed onto the bottom rung, hoisting himself up. When he reached the first landing, he peered into the window, the wet glass a cool relief to his painted skin. His eyes were met with only darkness, and so he tried to lift up on the window only to discover that it was locked.

So he tried the second window, and then the third one, and then the fourth one, and finally, the fifth one. Whoever said "third time's the charm" was _lying_, because it was obviously the _fifth_ time that was the charm.

Even though the drapes were closed inside, the window was unlocked, and he slowly lifted it upwards, pushing aside the floor-length curtains and quietly slipping inside, trying to control his labored breathing. The room was lit by one of those bendy lamps that was sitting on a desk, the bulb facing downwards so that the light was trapped against the tabletop and therefore only allowing a faint, yellow glow to illuminate the room.

He was in a bedroom, he came to realize, and it was a rather small and nondescript looking one at that. Closet there, desk here, dresser over there, and bed right—_oh_.

Curled up under the covers, right there in front of him and naught but two feet away . . . was a young woman.

He didn't know why it had come as such a surprise to him, but he supposed it was mostly due to the fact that her mouth and nose were covered by a clear, plastic oxygen mask. The sight normally wouldn't have struck him as being odd, but it was the fact that she was so _young_.

_Must be twenty-something, at least._

Not that it mattered in the long run. He'd make her death quick and painless. He didn't want to wake her from her beauty sleep, after all. _That _would have just been entirely _rude_.

Pulling out his switchblade, he took a step towards the bed, but immediately regretted it when his foot landed on something that sounded a lot like wrapping paper. It crunched nosily, the very sound of it making even _him _wince, and, not surprisingly, the woman in bed was awakened.

_Oh, joy._ He only hoped she didn't put up much of a fight. He was getting weaker and he didn't know how much more excitement he could take as pathetic as he felt.

It was dark enough that she couldn't see him from where she was sitting, but it was still light enough that he could see her. _Good, this will be easy then._

"Nancy, is that you?" she asked. Her voice was raspy and her vocal cords somehow sounded very broken. The Joker _almost_ wanted to feel sorry for her.

The woman removed her oxygen mask and set it on the nightstand next to her, coughing something fierce the second it was off as she struggled into a sitting position. "I—I thought you went home." The Joker remained in the shadows as the woman coughed a little more, heavier this time. He waited for her to calm down, but then her chest began to heave and she was breathing erratically and began panting through her choked coughs, like she had just run a marathon. Something was definitely not right. "Nancy?" she choked out. "Nancy, I need—_ah_—" She gasped loudly then and couldn't seem to catch her breath. The Joker watched with hooded eyes, wondering what was happening and _who the hell is Nancy? _

When her coughing finally stopped and she was no longer gasping for breath like a fish out of water, she sighed shakily, as if she were on the verge of tears. She pushed back the covers, and the Joker could only stand and watch in silence as the small, flimsy nightgown she was wearing fell around her, ending mid-thigh. She was a tiny little thing, bony and thin and of average height with big, wide eyes and a small mouth.

The Joker realized then that now was time. Now was the time for him to come up behind her and slit her tiny little throat. She wouldn't even know what hit—er, _cut_ her.

Yet, for some reason, he couldn't.

He couldn't bring himself to do it.

He didn't know why, call it morbid curiosity perhaps, but he wanted to see what she was going to do next.

He watched her glance over at her oxygen mask, and she stared at it for a moment through hazy eyes. He noticed then that she was beginning to sway a bit dizzily, and as she took a step forward, she collapsed to the carpet, her legs giving out underneath her as if they were made of Jell-o.

When she began to cry, the sound was so quiet that he hardly heard it at first. He stood next to the window and remained hidden in the shadows, listening to her quiet sobs for nearly five whole minutes. _This is so pathetic. What on earth is she crying about?_ She couldn't have been in as much pain as he was, and yet she was sobbing on the floor. _He_ wasn't crying. She needed to buck up, if you asked him.

When she finally finished, she let out a heavy sigh and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Slowly, her head began to lift when she noticed that the window was open. Conveniently enough, a cool breeze drifted in behind the Joker, making the curtains undulate in small, rippled waves. She must have sensed that something wasn't right because her whole body went noticeably rigid and her breathing got quieter, as if she were holding her breath and waiting for someone like him to pop out of the shadows. She grunted and tried to stand.

And that's when the Joker decided that it was time to end his little charade. He stepped forward, standing almost directly behind her with his knife clutched in hand, ready to slit her throat. He knew she heard him this time because her head snapped up and her eyes went wide.

"Who—who's there?"

Before he could think of a reply to her question, she was gasping again, stumbling onto the floor on her hands and knees as she panted breathlessly. She was clearly hyperventilating this time, her mouth open as she lied on the floor, trying to suck in more oxygen.

"Please, please someone _help _me," she managed to choke out. "I—I ca—can't breathe." She wheezed on the floor as she tried to crawl towards the nightstand, attempting to reach her oxygen mask. The Joker could tell she was disoriented and dizzy, because as her hand reached for the mask, she missed it by a long shot as her hand fell back to the floor. She cried out, her voice cracking pitifully. "Someone help . . . ."

_Oh, I plan to_, he thought, twirling his knife between blood-stained fingers.

The Joker's body, though, seemed to have other ideas. He stood over her, his legs on either side of her waist as he put his arms underneath hers and helped her up off the floor. The sharp pain in his side flared up again, but he managed to hold back a groan. He needed to get stitched up before he lost too much blood.

Ignoring his own pain, he dragged the woman over to the bed and hoisted her onto it. She choked on air that she didn't have as he retrieved her oxygen mask, not even bothering to put the strap around her head and just placing it over her mouth. She grabbed at it frantically, their fingers brushing in the process as he pulled his hand away, and pressed it to her face, breathing in precious oxygen.

He stood with his thighs pressed up against the side of the bed while he looked down at her and she looked up at him. He was surprised when her hand suddenly reached up and weakly clutched at his jacket. He let his eyes trail up her frame before he met her own. Her eyes shone and her mouth opened as if she wanted to say something, but she only squeezed his jacket once before her grip loosened. Her eyelashes fluttered and then closed, her hand falling limply to her side. She had passed out, but was still breathing.

_What the hell just happened? _

This was definitely now what he had expected. He had just wanted to get in, clean up his wounds, maybe eat a little something and take a powernap, and then get out.

He should've just killed her, although it certainly wasn't too late to do so . . . .

As he looked down at her, he felt something in his chest, something akin to a twinge of sympathy even though he had no idea what exactly that was supposed to feel like.

He sighed and studied her messy hair and face that was damp with sweat, and then to her nightgown that had ridden all the way up to her stomach and had revealed her underwear. Being the honorable gentlemen that he was, he pulled it back down for her so that she wasn't completely exposed. His hands happened to brush against her skin in the process and he found that she was unnaturally cold despite her sweating.

He pursed his lips in thought then, realizing that he didn't need to kill her. As long as she was knocked out, she didn't pose any threat. The Joker would stitch himself up and be out of there before she even woke.

He hated killing people like her. It somehow felt . . . pointless, like kicking a dog when it was already down. There was no fun in it, no excitement, no . . . _adrenaline rush_. She seemed as if she was in a lot of pain and probably wanted to die anyway, and the Joker wasn't going to be the person to send her where she wanted to go. He didn't do requests.

With that decided, he hobbled out of the bedroom and wandered down the dark halls of her apartment. There was another bedroom just across from her own but she had turned it into an office of sorts. There was a desk and a computer and a nifty swivel chair, and various boxes full of junk spewing from the closet. Uninterested, he meandered (see: _limped_,) into the kitchen/living room, which was plainly furnished. There weren't any lavish decorations or weirdly-shaped potted plants or cheesy family photos or lawn gnomes. He kinda liked it.

In the kitchen, he happened to notice a pan of brownies on the counter, and he cut myself a piece, chewing contently and momentarily forgetting about his bleeding side. There were lots of pictures on the fridge, and so he moved closer to it so he could better inspect them.

There was a picture of her with some of her friends in the downtown art gallery, a random picture of a dog sitting in the grass, and then a picture of her and some man—her dad, maybe?—who was dressed in hospital garb while she sat at his bedside, both of them smiling. Uninterestedly glancing over all the other pictures, his eyes fell upon her magnetic day-planner on the side of the fridge.

_Well well well, she is quite the busy little bee, isn't she?_ Almost every day of the month she had some kind of plan or to-do list scribbled in. Work out at the gym on Saturday, visit parents on Sunday, meeting with the boss on Monday, and etc. After a minute of studying the calendar, however, he began to notice a pattern. On Saturdays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays, she had doctor's appointments, all of which were marked in red pen. Also, listed on nearly all the work days of the week was the word "visitation," which was also written in red pen. What did that mean, and why the hell did she go to the doctor's so damn much?

The Joker was so lost in his own thoughts that he happened to miss the light, barely-there sound of footsteps. The suddenness of a soft, quiet voice, however, broke through his jumble of thoughts.

"You're bleeding."

Immediately, he spun around to see the woman standing just outside of the kitchen, staring at him. If she was surprised to find that the Joker was in her kitchen, she didn't let it show. She regarded him with an air of cautious interest. She was frightened though, he could tell by the way her hands clutched at the hem of her nightgown.

As she swallowed down her growing panic, he folded his arms across his chest, staring at her levelly.

"You got a first-aid kit?"


	2. Chapter 2

The Joker was standing in my kitchen.

Even though his back was to me, I recognized the purple suit immediately. In Gotham, that outfit was notorious.

The first thing that entered my mind, however, was not the fact that there was a mass murderer standing in my kitchen. Oh, no. The first thing that entered my mind was the fact that he's a lot taller than I imagined, his shoulders broader, wider perhaps, and there was something about his odd, hunched over stance that was somehow incredibly unsettling.

Oh, and there was blood. On my floor. There was blood on my kitchen floor.

After a few seconds of simply standing there in the hallway, nervously tugging at the hem of my nightgown, I realized that I didn't know what to do. I didn't even know what to _think_. Why was he staring at the pictures on my fridge? Was he eating a_ brownie_? And why was _the Joker_ even in my apartment in the first place?

This was all so surreal. I felt tempted to pinch myself to see if I was dreaming, but judging by the way my stomach churned in nervous anticipation told me that I wasn't.

Before I could even think through what I was about to say, the words seemed to come out of my mouth before I had a chance to stop them.

"You're bleeding."

Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. So _stupid_. The second he turned around and faced me, my heart stopped point blank in my chest and I felt as if the wind had been knocked right out of me. I felt my face go pale and my palms already starting to sweat. Despite all that, I tried my best to remain outwardly calm.

The simplest movement of his arms—he crossed them loosely over his chest—sent panic racing through me. He looked strong. I watched as he seemed to eye me somewhat interestedly. He did the whole up then down bit that men tended to do before meeting my eyes.

"You got a first-aid kit?" he asked at length.

Wordlessly, I nodded, staring straight into his soulless, black eyes.

I had never turned down a person in need. I knew he was a criminal—a mass murdering one at that—and even though I wasn't a doctor by any means, it was easy to see that he was in a lot of pain. His blood loss thus far had been extensive, judging from the amount that was currently spattered across my floor. I needed to help him. How could I not? I mean, it would've been awfully hypocritical of me to turn him away just because he wasn't a good guy. Jesus ate with the sinners and tax collectors, after all, right? Besides, it'd be flat-out _idiotic_ to say no to _him_. He could get angry and shoot me. I didn't put that past him for even a second.

The Joker continued to stare blankly at me, waiting for me to expound, and so I did.

"It's this way." I turned halfway, wondering if he'd follow, and, still staring unblinkingly into my eyes, he did.

I was unable to stand his penetrating stare, so I turned around even though I was nervous to have my back to him as he followed me down the darkened hallway. I swallowed thickly and prayed that he wouldn't put a bullet in my back while I wasn't looking. When I reached the bathroom, I opened the door and flicked on the light switch, stepping to the side to let him in.

He entered with the grace of tow truck, nearly knocking me into the wall as his bulk passed through the door. He all but collapsed onto the sink, one hand clutched at his side. Immediately, he opened the cabinet mirror above the sink and started rummaging through it, knocking all my prescription bottles and medications to the floor in his haste while trying to control his heavy breathing. Blood pooled between the crevices of his fingers as he applied more pressure to his ribs, only irritating the wound further.

The bathroom was small and cramped and the room was quickly overwhelmed by his stench. My head began to spin and I realized that I needed some fresh air. It was becoming too much inertia for me in one night. The doctor wouldn't be pleased to hear about this considering I was supposed to be "taking it easy."

As I turned to leave the room, practically unable to breathe, the Joker's hand suddenly reached out and made a grab for the back of my neck, gripping the tender flesh there painfully. My heart felt like it had just jumped up into my throat. It wanted to escape just as much as I did, apparently.

His humid, panting breath wafted near my ear, wakening my senses.

"And just where do you think _you're_ going?" he whispered lowly, his voice throaty and deep, as if he somehow conjured up the words from the very pit of his stomach. As his nails sunk into my flesh, I was rendered speechless, my mouth open and my eyes wide. Before I could even think up a reply, the bathroom door slammed shut and I was suddenly yanked backwards.

Now my head was _really _spinning. His scent became intoxicatingly acute and made me hyper-aware of even his slightest movements. His hand clenched tightly around the back of my neck, his heavy, labored pants of breath, and the way the rough exterior of his jacket happened to brush against my bare arm. It was all too much.

With one hand clasped around the back of my neck, he suddenly grabbed my upper arm with his other, his fingers encircling around it. I gasped at the feel of his warm, bloodied hands on my skin, wanting to recoil in disgust. Roughly, he pushed me towards the bathtub and yanked back the floral shower curtain, forcing me into the tub with a harsh shove. I fell to the ceramic tile on my hands on knees, gasping in surprise.

When I looked up at him through a curtain of hair, he smiled at me grimly. "Can't have you calling the boys in blue on me now, can I?" Without waiting for a response, he continued on. "No, I need you to sit _riiight_ there where I can see you." As I pulled myself into a sitting position, he smiled, leaning down and cuffing me on the cheek mockingly. "That's a good girl."

He turned his back to me and began his search for the first-aid kit again, this time probing the cabinets underneath the sink, finally pulling it out. He could have just saved himself half the trouble and simply asked where it was, but I certainly wasn't going to question his motives.

The Joker seated himself on the closed seat of the toilet and began removing his heavy purple overcoat, which happened to house a plethora of various compartments on the inside. He started to remove his green vest and then he loosened his tie. His suspender straps came next, which he pushed off his shoulders and let dangle around his thighs. And then, finally, he removed his light purple, hexagon-patterned button-up.

It was as he was removing his clothes that I remembered what _I _was wearing, mentally cursing myself for picking tonight of all nights to wear such a flimsy little nightgown. It hardly covered my underwear, which, unfortunately, was something that I couldn't hide from his view no matter what position my legs were crossed or folded in. I decided to sit with my knees pulled up to my chest and my ankles crossed, hoping my legs would block anything . . . important . . . from his view.

He seemed to have notice my discomfort and smirked at me, studying me from under his brows like I was some kind of caged, jungle animal and he was the poacher, inspecting his find.

"What's your name, sweetheart?"

It took me a moment to answer, only because he had just finished peeling his sticky, blood-coated shirt away from his flesh and all I could see was this huge, red, gaping wound. I moved my eyes to his face and watched him wince as his shirt finally came all the way off. I couldn't help but return my gaze to his wound, morbidly fascinated.

"Riley," I replied after a moment of considerable silence. "It's Riley."

"That's a boy's name," he commented off-handedly, prodding at his wound while I looked on, cringing.

"I know."

The Joker opened the first-aid kid and retrieved what he needed; a small, travel-sized bottle of peroxide, a sterilized needle, medical thread, and a large bandage, among a few other things.

I watched him silently as he set right to work, uncapping the bottle of peroxide and pouring the _whole _bottle's contents over his wound. My eyes widened in shock and I expected him to scream, shout, cry—to just do _something_—but instead, he only hissed, his teeth clenched and a small smile tugging at the edges of his sanguinary mouth.

It seemed like now was as good of a time as ever to ask the question that had been plaguing the back of my mind ever since I first saw him.

"Are you going to kill me?" I had to know. I couldn't sit there in silence as he kept me wondering in torturous suspense. I just wanted to know the truth.

It took him a moment to respond, and he didn't even look up to meet my eyes.

"Depends on if you amuse me or no_t_," he finally replied.

"_Amuse _you? Well, what would you like me to do? Pull out my tap-dancing shoes and perform an arousing jazz number?"

Oh, God. I can't believe I just _said _that. Of all times for me to be sarcastic, it had to be now, in front of _him_. Lord, help me. I've never uttered a sarcastic comment in my life, honestly. I was so bad at witty comebacks and most of the time could never even think of anything to say. Where the heck had that line _come _from, anyway? . . . I didn't even_ have_ tap-dancing shoes!

Just as I half expected, the Joker looked up at me, clearly surprised by my wisecrack.

"A bit feisty, are we?" He worked his mouth as if he were trying to pull his scars closer to his tongue, the effect strangely unnerving

"I'm sorry," I quickly added, completely earnest, "I . . . I don't normally say things like that."

My heart pounded a little faster as he eyed me for a moment longer, and I felt as if he were looking right through me, as if he could see my very soul.

"No, no you don't, do you?" He squinted his eyes at me, as if studying me, and then, with one final, calculating stare, resumed his work once again, threading the medical string through the needle and preparing to pull it through his skin. That was something I _definitely_ didn't want to watch.

As he silently worked, I turned my head away, staring instead at the blue tiles of my bathtub.

"What's it called?"

The sound of his voice startled me. "Beg pardon?"

"Your, uh, illness, your . . . _disease_," he uttered the word strangely. "What's it called?"

I couldn't help but sigh a little. If there was one question I hated the most, it had to be that one. I hated talking about my illness, almost as much as I hated people asking about it. It seemed to be an unavoidable topic these days.

"Pulmonary hypertension," I eventually conceded, the words rolling off my tongue with such ease you'd think I would've practiced saying them into a mirror. The first time I'd learned of my disease I couldn't even _think_ about those words without crying. Now I could say them without any emotion at all. "It's very rare," I continued, not looking at him. "Most people have never even heard of it."

He didn't say anything after that, simply pulled the needle through his skin and silently stitched himself up. I was amazed at his tolerance for pain and the fact that he wasn't making any noises of discomfort. It must've like hell, and yet the only sound that filled the room was his heavy, steady breathing.

"Pulmonary _hypertension_," he murmured thoughtfully, and the last word had a sickening ring to it when it escaped between his wrangled lips. He stopped stitching for a moment to look at me, swiping his tongue over his mouth and then giving me a steely gaze. "Will you die?" The question was blunt and he asked it without emotion, although his voice was a bit lower than it was before.

I met his gaze, knowing my eyes were hard as stone and as blank as his own.

"Yes," I said, my voice steadied and calm, special thanks to years of practice. Not that he cared.

"Hmph." He returned back to his work as if he we hadn't just been discussing my terminal illness.

I looked away as well, too disgusted to watch him finish his work. After a moment of stitching, he eventually lowered his head and bit off the excess string, not bothering to use the surgical scissors that lied in the kit at his feet. His wound was all stitched up but still bleeding, so he covered it in a gauze bandage before patting it, clearly pleased with his work. When he stood from his seat I was once again reminded of his towering height. He turned to face me, staring at me blankly through his black-painted eyes.

When he began unbuckling his pants, however, my heart jumped straight up into my throat (again) and I choked on panic.

"Wha—what are you doing?"

"Taking off my pants," he replied nonchalantly. "Are you _blind_?"

"But—but why?"

He didn't answer me as he unbuttoned them and pulled down the zipper, letting the fabric pool around his ankles before he stepped out of them.

He was wearing boxers—_thank God_—but an accidental peep show wasn't really what concerned me at the moment. I quickly moved to get of the bathtub, realizing that I needed to make a run for it.

It took him no time at all to step forward and push me back down into the tub, my head cracking against the tile. I looked up at him from on my back, seeing only a blur of red and white. When his face came back into focus, he addressed me impatiently.

"Calm _down_," he chided. "You're getting yourself all worked up for no reason."

_The fact that you're going to rape me should be reason enough!_ I wanted to scream.

But the funny thing was, he didn't. Simply seated himself back down on the toilet lid and pulled up his boxers a little, revealing another bloody wound on his thigh, this one hardly as bad as the first but still requiring a bit of attention.

After a moment of silence and pure, unadulterated embarrassment on my part, I finally gained the nerve to speak up.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, mortified. "I—I thought you were going to—"

"_Rape_ you? _Pft_." He looked up from bandaging his wound and gave me a look of disgust, as if he were offended by the accusation. "Don't flatter yourself, cupcake. I don't like you _that_ much."

For a minute, I was a bit stunned, not quite sure what to make of his last comment. It was obviously meant to offend, but I couldn't help but feel a bit relieved nevertheless.

"Oh . . . okay."

Upon hearing my response, a wide smile suddenly split his face, exposing rows of yellowed teeth. "Ha _ha_! You're a riot, you know that? '_Okay_'?" he mocked my former word. "Oh, now I think I really _do _like you." He quickly finished bandaging the laceration on his thigh and stood, pulling back on his pants.

When he finished with the buckle he looked down at me and I wasn't quite sure what I was supposed to do. Was this the part where he brutally murdered me? Let the blood from my multiple knife wounds drain down the faucet? God, I didn't want to die painfully. Not like that.

The Joker carefully pulled back on his shirt, buttoning it all the way to the top, and then slid his suspender straps back over his shoulders, grimacing when they pulled taut against his stomach. As he was buttoning his green vest, he glanced up at me from beneath his brows again, his eyes narrowed almost playfully.

"Give me a five-minute head start?"

"Excuse me?"

"Before you call the cops. Five minute head start? Bad leg and all." He patted his thigh.

Oh.

Funny, I hadn't even considered calling the cops, not once during this whole ordeal.

What is _wrong_ with me?

I couldn't call the police on him though, not even if I wanted to. I knew he was murderer, I knew he had killed hundreds of innocent people; I wasn't entirely uninformed. I had watched the news, read the articles, and seen firsthand the fruits of his "labor."

Even despite all the bad crimes he had committed, the words seemed to come out of my mouth before I could even register them, (which seemed to be happening a lot, lately.)

"I'm not going to call the cops."

Cocking his head to the side, the Joker smirked, making my heart race. "You're not?" he asked doubtfully, furrowing his brows and crossing his arms over his chest.

"No."

He calculated my answer, trying to determine whether or not I was lying.

"That's ah," he shifted his weight to his other foot, "that's very generous of you."

I couldn't even begin to believe my luck, but it was just now dawning on me that I might be getting out of this alive. I felt a bit more confident with that realization and attempted to get on his good side.

"By the way, I have a door, you know. You don't have to use the fire-escape again." My voice sounded small and unimpressive to my own ears, but I didn't want to risk coming off as too cocky.

Something like a smile pulled at the corner of his mouth, and his eyes seemed to gleam a little, as if I had said something funny but he just didn't want to admit it. He began backing towards the door, unlocking it and then pulling it open.

"I'd rather not take my chances," he said with a grin. Out in the hallway where I could just barely see him, he folded one arm over his stomach and bent at the waist, bowing mockingly at me.

"See you around, _princess_."

Next thing I knew, the lights were suddenly off and the bathroom door had slammed shut with a resounding_ bang_.

What just . . ._ happened_?

In the dark, I marveled at the fact that I was still alive—I was actually _alive_. I survived an encounter with _the Joker_. I could hardly believe it. I didn't even have anything to show for it—well, that is if you excluded the small bump on the back of my head. Still, though, he didn't kill me . . . the Joker didn't kill me.

It was the most outlandish thing that had happened to me in my whole life, without a doubt. What would I tell Nancy?

It was a while that I sat in the bathtub in the dark, too shocked to even move. I replayed our conversation over and over again in my head and wondered at my own luck. _Should_ I tell Nancy about this?

No . . . no. That would _not _be a good idea. Nancy would go ballistic—I couldn't even imagine how I would tell her. I didn't think it would do any good, anyhow. She'd want me to install an alarm system or hire a security guard or something equally ridiculous like that. Not to mention I'd have to file a police report, and who knows how long that would take. Nancy would probably want me to move, too. But I loved my apartment, tiny and cramped as it may be. I'd lived there ever since I graduated college—I couldn't possibly imagine moving. No, Nancy definitely couldn't know about my little encounter.

With that decided, I shakily pulled myself to my feet and stepped out of the bathtub, feeling along the wall until I reached the light switch.

When I turned it on I was reminded of his presence—and his stench. The room reeked of copper and, strangely enough, gasoline. My prescription bottles and the contents of the first-aid kit were strewn all over the floor, speckled and stained with the Joker's blood.

Once I finished cleaning up the mess I finally sank into bed, pulling my oxygen mask over my face—Doctor Martin said to sleep with it on "just in case"—and eventually dropped off to sleep, dreaming only of _him_.

**x**

Three months had uneventfully passed since my first encounter with the Joker. I was kept awake at night for the first two weeks, thinking that he might return and decide that he wanted to murder me. Thankfully, he didn't, and I had pretty much forgotten about the whole ordeal and placed it in the back of my mind. My days were busy with work, doctor's appointments, travel plans, and trying to make room for my nearly non-existent social life.

I'd been getting worse lately, I could tell by my lack of interest in things I used to enjoy doing and by the way simply walking up a couple flights of stairs could leave me breathless. It didn't use to be that bad, but as I had begun to age the disease had progressed for the worse. I was nauseous and my head would be spinning by lunch time, and most days I had to leave the office early because of it. It was so frustrating, and I envied those who could live their lives normally, hardly a care in the world. They could do what they wanted, when they wanted. For me, a simple trip to the grocery store required a day's heads-up for Nancy and a written entry in my medical journal to show my doctor at the next visit. He had required that every trip I make anywhere—to work, to the store, a short walk in the park—that I write down immediately after I return. I recorded how I was feeling emotionally and physically—if I ever felt dizzy or short of breath or if my vision started to blur—mundane things like that. Normal people didn't have to write in journals to show to their doctors, but then again, most normal people didn't have a fatal, life-threatening disease.

Today happened to be one of those days where my head was spinning and I had to leave the office early. Nancy was at home waiting for me by the time I arrived, as per usual.

Nancy, as you were probably wondering, was my caretaker. She made sure I took my all my medications, did the housework for me that was labeled "too extraneous" by my doctor, and bought all my groceries and occasionally cooked dinner. I tried to do as much as possible, but Nancy was always adamant about making sure that I "took it easy" and "didn't push myself too hard."

I resented her presence at first, especially because my mom was the one who hired her, but over the years she'd grown a close friend and really was a huge help, even if I was reluctant to admit it. She slept over often on the nights where I was feeling especially sick and was almost always by my side.

She'd given up so much of her life for mine; sometimes it made me feel guilty. She still thought that there was hope that my disease could be cured—but I knew better than that. My time was running out and my condition was only getting worse. I smiled to appease her and her optimism whenever she told me about a new technology that was being tested that could help heal me—but other than that I didn't talk about a "cure." I'd given up on hope long ago. I wasn't being a pessimist so much as I was simply being a realist. I mean, I had to lay the facts out on the table. Since my disease was so rare and there were only a handful of cases, it wasn't really a huge priority, not with breast cancer on the rise and more common diseases like that. I'd just been put on the back burner was all, at least as far as research was concerned, and, over the years, I'd come to accept that. Not much I could do about it now. It was much too late to reverse the damage that had already been done.

Anyway, as I was saying, Nancy helped me clean the house, as we always did on Tuesdays, and by 8'clock we'd already eaten dinner and she'd put the leftovers in the fridge. After she left, I called one of my friends who I'd been meaning to talk to. She gushed about how cute little Alexis is, whom I haven't even seen yet, and her assuring me that the birthing pains were "definitely" worth it.

Her comment hurt a little bit, though I know she didn't mean for it to do so. Sometimes she just got to talking and forgot about my condition. I was physically able to have children . . . it's just that it wouldn't have been appropriate since I could've passed away within the next few years at any given time. It just wouldn't be right. Still, the fact that I would never be able to have children disheartened me quite a bit, and I found myself even more depressed than I was before. I didn't expect anyone to walk on eggshells around me and the topic of my disease and all the things that it might entail, but sometimes I wished that people would be more careful. I knew I was just being selfish and I hated myself for that. I hated how bitter I had become. I hated how I'd already accepted death. I even _felt_ dead, emotionally _and _physically. I was worthless.

_Why do I keep throwing these little pity-parties for myself?_ I started to wonder.

You know what I needed to do? I needed to start living again, to start getting excited about my life before it ended and it became too late. I needed to get out more, to socialize with more people. I needed to make a bucket list filled with exciting things to accomplish like Morgan Freeman and Jack Nicholson did in that one movie. I needed to stop moping around and get on with my life before it was over. I needed to _live_.

I knew it wasn't much, but I did the first thing that came to mind. I hadn't gotten dolled up in a long time, so I resolved to do just that. I couldn't go out tonight since it was late and Nancy wouldn't approve, but I _could_ play around with my makeup in front of the mirror and make myself look pretty. It had been so long since I'd actually cared about my appearance. Over time I guess I'd just given up on myself. I had always thought, _what's the point? Who are you trying to impress, anyway? No one is going to want to date you once they find out about your disease._

Well, no more of that talk. I placed the phone back in its cradle and got up from the couch, making my way to the bedroom. Standing in front of the closet, I picked out a little black dress I hadn't worn in a while. It had thin straps that crisscrossed and zigzagged all across the back, and I loved how sexy it made me feel. Next, I put on a pair of strappy-heeled Mary-Jane's, which gave me a good, extra three inches.

In my heels, I stood in front of the mirror mounted above my dresser, leaning over it as I carefully applied some eyeliner, mascara, and even some metallic-gray eye shadow, giving myself a sultry smoky-eye. I'd always hated lipstick of any kind, so I simply put on some shiny gloss instead, smiling to myself in the mirror at how spontaneous all this was.

I spent a few minutes curling my hair in loose waves and then eventually stepped back from the mirror, examining myself.

I stared at my reflection for what felt like hours, scrutinizing everything and missing nothing. Even with the makeup on there were still dark circles beneath my eyes, displaying my insomnia for all to see. My skin was pale—too pale—due to lack of sunlight. I hardly ever went out anymore. My face was thin, too, was sallow looking, almost, and it no longer had that fresh-faced, youthful glow.

Angry at myself, I slowly crumbled to the floor, my throat tightening uncomfortably in an attempt to hold back my tears. How could I have just . . . let myself _go_ like that? Even with the makeup on I still looked old. Weary. Worn-out. I was twenty-seven years old and I looked _dead_. Lifeless. There was no spark in my eye, no color to my cheeks. I was pale and fragile and tired and actually _wanting_ to die. I wanted my life to be over. _When did it all come to this?_ I wondered. _When did I start welcoming death?_

I remained on the floor in my bedroom for a while, staring at the carpet as I lay on my side. I was disappointed in myself and my pitiful boohoo-me attitude . . . but too angry to actually cry about it.

So I slept.

**x**

It was probably thirty minutes later when I was awakened by a strange noise. Since I had just woken up and was still a bit disoriented, I wasn't quite sure where exactly it had come from. Was someone knocking on the door? Quickly, I got up from the floor and made my way through the hallway. It was dark out now and the drapes were closed, not letting in even a single streak of light from outside. I flipped on the light in the kitchen and then smoothed out my dress (_I hope my makeup isn't running_,) before answering the door.

But no one was there.

I frowned, furrowing my brows as I timidly stepped out into the hallway. _Maybe I was just imagining things?_That must've been it. Sighing, I closed the door and locked it before stepping back into the kitchen. I decided to get a glass of wine and maybe an aspirin or two to clear my head.

Even in my heels I had to stand on my tip-toes to reach for the tall, fancy wine glasses on the very top shelf. When I pulled it from the shelf, however, it suddenly broke in my hands and pieces fell to the counter, glass shattering everywhere. I cried out as a shard sliced into my palm. Blood immediately pooled from the cut and I moaned in pain. It hurt like hell.

Fighting back frustrated tears, I made my way towards the hallway and into the bathroom to retrieve a towel. _Damn it all._ _The perfect ending to the perfect day,_ I thought sarcastically.

Out in the narrow hallway, however, I was stopped dead in my tracks, my eyes going wide.

There, standing at the end of the hall, was _him_. He was dressed the same and looked the same as he did before, yet for some reason, I found myself more terrified this time around than I was the first time when we met three months ago. Maybe this time he had come back to finish me off. God, I knew I wasn't going to get off so easy. With the Joker, nothing was ever easy.

"You're bleeding," he said, a line that is all but too reminiscent of our first encounter that I still distinctly remembered. He worked his mouth and stared at me with his head cocked to the side, eyeing me a bit strangely, as if he himself was confused as to why he was here.

But before I even had a chance to ask him if he's got a first-aid kit, I passed out.

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**_ _I hope this wasn't completely terrible. I'm sorry if I didn't do the Joker justice. Please feel free to share your thoughts, good or bad. And thanks for the feedback thus far. Feel free to let me know what you think of this chapter, I know it's a lot different from the first. _

_Please note: the character in this story has a __**very exaggerated **__form of pulmonary hypertension_—_just wanted to clear that up for anyone out there who might have been confused._


	3. Chapter 3

She passed out. She _actually_ passed out.

It seemed like women were always feinting around him. The Joker liked to think that his dashingly good looks tended to have that effect on women.

He ruminated over the idea as he stood in the middle of the hallway, tonguing at the insides of his lacerated mouth. His scars felt good against his tongue, like sandpaper tearing silk. In the early days—when his scars were still mutilated and fresh—he'd accidentally cut his tongue on the stitches. He'd lap at the metallic, coppery taste as it flooded his mouth, swallow it down . . . and then do it all over again until his tongue was raw and his own saliva stung too much to swallow.

Now his scars were jagged and rough, and even if the stitches and the sharp, make-shift staples were long gone, he still liked to imagine that they weren't. So he kept lapping at blood that wasn't really there, savoring its sanguinary taste.

He twirled the serrated knife in his left hand and smirked, studying the woman sprawled out on the floor before him. Her lips were parted, eyes closed, and, as it was, she was _completely_ knocked out. He wouldn't have been surprised if she had pissed herself on the way down. He tended to have that effect on women, too.

Smacking his lips, he took a few steps closer, squatting on his haunches and turning her so that she lay flat on her back. He let his eyes rake up and down her frame then, noting her attire.

Slinky black dress, strappy heels, dark, sultry makeup . . . what, she go on a date or something?

He stood and went into the kitchen, noisily barraging through the cupboards in search of food. She was well-stocked—and organized, too—and he wondered if she was a good cook. There were a stack of cookbooks on the counter next to the fridge, so he figured she must dabble into it occasionally at the very least.

He ravaged through the cabinets a little while longer until he discovered a box of Cocoa Puffs. He smirked as he retrieved the sugary kid's cereal and held it above him, shaking the contents so they fell into his waiting mouth.

In truth, he didn't know why he had come back. A part of him wanted to see her again—Riley. He kind of liked her, he thought. She was . . . interesting. Not different or unique but . . . interesting. And she had good food.

And she was going to make him some. That is when she woke up, of course.

He left the cereal box on the counter and decided to snoop through her apartment while she lay unconscious on the floor. He didn't give any thought to her well-being, sick and dying as she was. He figured she'd wake up soon enough. He wasn't about to faun over her simply because she had passed out. If anything, she should've been grateful that he hadn't killed her yet. He could think of a few ways to maim that pretty little face . . . .

Removing his coat and throwing it over the back of the kitchen chair, he decided he'd start first the bedroom. It was small and crowded, and she didn't seem to have any items that caught his immediate interest. She was a typical single woman, from what he could gather. Romantic comedies seemed to be her movie of choice, and they lined the shelf beneath the small, portable T.V. Sappy romance novels,_Marie Claire_, and various other feminine reading materials were stacked haphazardly on the bookshelf by the closet. She had those scented pink candles too—the ones that were annoyingly potent and made your nose scrunch in distaste when you entered the room—and _way_ too many fucking _pillows_.What in hell did she need so many pillows for?

Eventually he meandered back into the kitchen, a bit disappointed to find her still passed out. He wondered if he should douse her with water or something. It was funny, he realized. When he had first come to her apartment, he had _wanted_ her to stay passed out, now he wanted her to wake up.

With his tongue distractedly lapping at the corner of his mouth, he searched the room for something to occupy him. When he saw Riley's laptop residing on the kitchen table, the corner of his mouth lifted into a devious smirk and he stalked towards it. He sank into the wooden chair as the blue screen illuminated his painted face and it powered to life. He was pleased to find that it wasn't password protected—not that he wouldn't have been able to bypass the system if it had been—and was able to log in with ease.

He hadn't used a computer in a while, he realized. In fact, that last time he _had_used one, he'd defaced at least twenty of Gotham's public websites. He'd sent the citizens of Gotham a _lee-ttle_ message just to let them know that he was coming. Considerate, right?

However, his efforts had been downplayed as a mere prank—at first—and city officials nervously laughed it off behind their bulletproof vests and the tinted black windows of their expensive SUVs. In truth, they were scared. It was obvious this wasn't some mere "prank," and the more that the newscasters tried to assert it as such, the more malicious the Joker's attacks became. After slandering a Gotham bakery website, (oh, and how he had just _ruined_ that) he'd paid a little visit to the place itself and poisoned all of the pies there just for the hell of it. The incident caused severe sickness for many unsuspecting customers and, consequently, the decline and shutdown of numerous bakeries throughout the entire city.

_That's what they get for underestimating my power._ And he'd shown them soon enough, too. What with Harvey Dent's death and forcing the city to turn their backs on Batman. Now _that_hadn't been in his master plan, but the cards had just so perfectly fallen into place on that one, he'd been too overjoyed to stop them.

For half an hour, he browsed the web aimlessly, snooped through all of her personal documents, pictures, music library, and then occupied himself by playing Solitaire, regrettably not winning a single game. _Fuck Solitaire_, he thought with a grimace. He hated it anyways.

He was about to start on his third game when he heard the girl stirring from behind him. He turned in his chair and straddled it, folding his arms across the back of it and resting his chin atop them.

She moaned as she began to come to, turning on her side as she struggled to clear the black dots from her vision. Her chest heaved and she seemed to be searching for her oxygen mask. She seemed confused as to why she was sprawled across the floor, and shakily, she tried to lift herself off of it.

The Joker watched her arms wobble as she pulled herself from the floor. When she turned, however, her eyes widened and she screamed.

He'd expected as much, but made no immediate move to stop her. Gasping, she stumbled into the living room and nearly tripped over the coffee table as she tried to locate the phone.

Turning her back to him was her first mistake.

**x**

The Joker was fast to jump out of his chair. "Ah ah ah," he chided. I yelped as he wrapped his arms around me from behind, pulling me away from the phone. I struggled with him and fought to get away, but it lasted only momentarily due to his size and strength. He quickly overpowered me and in our scuffle, we both toppled to the couch and finally, the floor.

I groaned. He was heavy. When he managed to pin my hands above my head, he grinned. "Now, I really thought we were past all this," he chided.

Gasping for breath, I stared at the face that hovered above mine with unconcealed fright. "Why did you come back?" I breathed.

"To see you, of course!" He licked his lips and cocked his head, staring down at me. "Or maybe I came to finish the job," he mused, narrowing his eyes. "What do you think?"

Dumbstruck, I wasn't sure how to respond. When I opened my mouth to respond to say _something_, at the very least, no sound came out, and instead I looked like a gaping fish.

The Joker took the liberty of closing my jaw with a gloved hand, his dark eyes gleaming. "I'm not going to kill you, cupcake. It was a _joke_."

"You know, for a clown you're not very funny," I spat, ripping one of my arms free of his grip. I pushed on his chest and he rolled off me, laughing.

"And for someone without any way to defend herself," he began, a knife suddenly pressed against the column of my throat, "you sure have a lot of_nerve_."

His expression had turned serious, and I swallowed. I prayed my voice wouldn't quiver when I spoke. "You said you weren't going to kill me."

"I did." In the blink of an eye, his hand was moving in a blur and his knife suddenly nicked my throat. I gasped in surprise and pulled back, but he put a hand on my shoulder to keep me where I was. It was just a knick and nothing more, but it stung like hell. "But I never said I wouldn't leave a few scars."

And I didn't doubt him, then. When I didn't respond, he grinned and let me go. "There." He smiled sarcastically, then pointed to the couch. "Si_t_."

The Joker made sure I did exactly as he said, his eyes following my every move until I had, somewhat cautiously, seated myself in the middle of the couch, half afraid that this was some kind of trick. I lifted my head to meet his gaze.

Satisfied, the Joker sighed and bent down to tug the phone cord from the wall. "I'm hurt, you know. I thought we had something special." He looked at me over his shoulder as he placed the phone in the cabinet beneath the TV and shut it.

"I . . . beg pardon?"

"Oh, come on, didn't you feel it to?"

I watched as he sauntered closer and sunk down on the couch next to me. Casually, he draped an arm over the back of it, as if we were good friends having a pleasant chat.

"You scare the shit out of me," I replied honestly, hoping that he wouldn't be upset at my candidness. _What exactly does he expect me to say?_

I flinched as he scooted closer, his thigh pressed against mine. "That, sweetheart, is not a very pleasant mental image. Don't be a _mood killer_," he whispered surreptitiously.

I stared at him, taking in the lines of his face and his dark, smudged makeup. I wondered how old he was. "Look, if it's money you want I don't have that mu—"

The Joker sighed loudly, interrupting my speech. "Why does everyone always think its_money_ I want? Do I look like the sort of guy who cares about that kind of thing?

I shrugged, feeling uneasy.

"The answer is _no_, sweetheart. Money is… pointless."

I snorted in disagreement and tried to distance myself from the clown with little success. "Pointless," I repeated. "Tell that to my doctor, and my landlord, and my grocer."

The Joker suddenly seemed excited, and he scooted even closer. "They're just delusional," he said, licking his lips. He turned his body towards mine so he could face me more directly. "They don't see things the way I do."

"And how do you see things?" I asked after a moment, surprised at how genuinely curious I was to know his answer.

"I see things," he said, "the way they really are." He looked at me from beneath his brows to assess my reaction, as if he had just uttered a clever paradox and he wanted to know what I thought of it. "So many people . . . sugarcoat things, try to hide the ugly truth and cover up their shortcomings. But the system is _broken_. I know that. You know that. That's why I like you."

"And what makes you think I believe all that? That the system is broken."

The Joker leaned in close, his face only inches from mine, and I could practically taste the gasoline that clung to his suit like a second skin. It was, oddly enough, somehow intoxicating. "Because you _do _believe that," he whispered. "You think it's unfair that all of your tax money goes to fulfilling the extravagant mansions and outlandish whims of the corrupted city officials. You think it's unfair that you can do nothing but sit here and _die_ while all of the generous donations and medical funding goes towards curing cancer and _every disease but yours_."

By the time he had finished, I felt breathless. An unfamiliar pain tightened in my chest. "How do you know that?"

The Joker only grinned, the corner of his scarred mouth lifting in satisfaction. "You're more transparent than you think. Everyone is."

"Except you, of course."

He smiled, his eyes gleaming. "Well, of course."

He didn't stop smiling after that, and in the uncomfortable silence that followed, I was forced to look away. I stared at my hands, wishing that he would leave and never come back.

And yet, at the same time . . . deep down inside I couldn't help but feel just a little less lonely when he was around. The things he said actually seemed to make sense. I wondered if—in some weird, twisted way—I had actually just enjoyed that conversation?

But no, what was I thinking? He was a homicidal clown and he needed to leave; _now_. Quickly I slipped from beneath the weight of his arm and stood from the couch, facing him.

"You need to go."

With a exasperated sigh, the Joker raised his brows and sunk deeper into the couch, stretching both of his arms along the back of it. "You're going to start _that_ again? I thought we were getting somewhere!" he whined, pouting with his lower lip stuck out like a child. "It was just getting interesting."

"You know what would be really interesting?" I put a hand on my hip and pointed towards the door with the other. "If you left and never came back."

For a moment, everything was silent. I knew almost immediately that I had said too much. _Why don't I ever think before I speak?_I berated herself.

The Joker seemed to be considering my words, and his unblinking stare made the hairs on my arm stand on end. _God, I should apologize,_ I thought. But I couldn't find the words to speak.

I watched, heart racing, as he stood from the couch, his shadow looming over me. "And if I say _no_?"

I swallowed, backing up as he inched closer. When I had backed herself into the wall and the Joker was only a breath away, I was forced to concede. "Then I guess you'll have to stay," I heard myself whisper.

He searched her eyes, a small grin gracing his lips. "If you_insist_," he said with infuriating arrogance. I had the urge to slap that smirk right off his garishly painted face.

I watched him turn his back to me and stride into the kitchen, flinging open cupboards as he went. I noticed a box of Cocoa Puffs on the counter, and suddenly I wondered how long I had passed out for him to eat almost an entire box.

With my back and hands pressed flat against the wall, I watched him, breathless.

He turned to look at me and rolled his eyes. "Don't just _stand_ there. C'mere."

Almost as if there were some outside force pulling me towards him, I entered the kitchen, not once breaking his gaze.

"Can you cook?" he asked.

"Um . . ." I twisted my hands, unsure of how to respond. "Well, yes, but—"

"Good. Make me something." He pursed his lips and seated himself at the small, round table and folded his arms across his chest, waiting.

I tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and bit my lip. "I—I'm not really sure . . ."

"Just make whatever. I like everything. But I'm allergic to peanuts."

The Clown Prince of Crime was allergic to_ peanuts_? "Really?"

"No. Now _cook_."

Outside, the wailing sirens of an ambulance sounded from the street below. I did not move as I listened, and the Joker continued to watch me, curious.

We both knew what I was thinking. He had unplugged only one phone in my apartment. There was also one in the office I easily could have run to, but I couldn't risk it. He seemed like he was in a pleasant mood; the last thing I wanted to do was disrupt that.

_If I make him dinner, he'll eat, he'll leave, and then everything will be fine_. Somehow I didn't quite believe my words. _Everything will be fine._

Slowly I walked to the fridge, intensely aware of the way the Joker's eyes followed my every move. I peered inside my fridge, wondering what on earth I could possibly whip together, and pushed aside yogurts and a small box of blueberries. I eventually decided to pull out a plastic container with leftover chicken strips from the other night.

"Do you like tortillas?"

"Love them."

Almost as if in a dream, I moved about the kitchen, preparing the Joker's meal. I turned on the gas stove, chopped fresh peppers and onions, and sprinkled shredded cheese over the diced chicken as I stirred it atop the stove.

"Why are you so nervous?"

He sounded amused, as if he were pleased by this observation.

The metal spatula scraped against the bottom of the pan and I jumped at the sound of his voice.

"You sound so surprised," I remarked dryly. I glanced over my shoulder to gauge his reaction but quickly looked away when I found him staring.

He only shrugged at my answer and pulled out a switchblade from within his jacket, admiring the way it gleamed beneath the overhead light.

He looked up when I placed a steaming plate and a glass of water in front of him. "I hope you . . . like it."

I stepped back and stared at the knife he had so casually laid upon the table next to him.

He smirked at first, but when he noticed I didn't have a plate, quickly frowned. "Where's yours?"

"What—? Oh . . . I'm not hungry."

The Joker stared at her.

"Maybe I'll have a little."

He only half smiled. "Good girl."

I went back to the stove, uncomfortable with the way his eyes were burning searing holes into my back, and scooped some of the leftovers onto a plate. I made sure to leave enough for him in case he wanted seconds.

Sitting across from the Joker at my very own kitchen table felt otherworldly, as if I had just entered some kind of parallel universe. A bit self consciously I took a bite of my food, meeting his eyes as I chewed.

It was only after I took a bite that the Joker did too, finally breaking his heavy gaze.

For a moment, everything was silent. I wondered what one was supposed to talk about with a psychopathic killer. Ask him how is day went? Something told me I didn't want to know.

"Your mascara's running," he suddenly piqued from the other side of the table. He didn't even look at me as he said it, as if the thought had randomly popped up in his mind and he just needed to spit it out.

I was dumbstruck. "I . . . oh, what?" I stuttered, feeling like a fish out of water.

"I _said_ your mascara is running. You look like a rac_coon_."

My brows raised of their own accord. "As if _you're_ one to talk," I retorted.

The second the words left my mouth, my heart stopped and I felt terrified. However, the maniac merely laughed, the sound of it so loud and so abrupt that I jumped in my seat, startled. "This is why I _like _you! Never afraid to speak what's on your mind."

I wasn't sure how to respond after that, so I kept silent and continued eating.

The Joker, I noticed, was a voracious eater, and had all the table manners of a two-year old. I tried not to stare as he wolfed down his food, but it was like watching a long, drawn out train wreck. On one hand, I was horrified, but on the other, somewhat fascinated.

When he finished, long after I had given up on eating and had spent the past fifteen minutes pushing the food on my plate in circles, the Joker sighed and patted his stomach. I assumed that was all the thanks she was going to get. He didn't really seem like the type of man to hand out compliments.

"Do you want anymore?" I ventured. I rose from my seat and slowly took his plate, half afraid that he might smack my hand away.

"No_p_e," he drawled, his lips popping extra hard on the 'p'.

I nodded and took his plate to the sink along with my own rinsing them off. I decided I would wash them later, when there wasn't a homicidal clown at my back.

I turned and leaned against the sink, wiping my hands with a dishtowel and wondering what he would do next. I expected he would leave now, and yet, I was confused to admit that a strange part of me didn't really want him to.

_God, I need to get out more,_ I thought, folding my arms across my chest. I never thought I'd be lonely enough to actually crave interaction with a psychopath. _Something is seriously wrong with me_.

"So," the Joker said, breaking me from my thoughts. He leaned back in his chair, the front two legs leaving the ground beneath him as the chair teetered precariously. "What're ya all dressed up for, _hm_? Who's the lucky stu-_d_?"

I looked down at my dress, having forgotten I was even wearing such formal attire. "Oh." Embarrassedly, I undid the straps from my ankles and pulled off my heels, sinking back to my original height. "No lucky guy just . . . playing dress-up, I guess." With a lame shrug of my shoulders I half smiled, unsure of what else to say.

The Joker regarded me, cocking his head. "Playing dress-u_p_. Well, I know all about that." He grinned, tonguing at his lower lip.

Despite my better judgment, I felt myself smile, suddenly intrigued. The most wanted man in Gotham was in my kitchen, for goodness sakes. Shouldn't I at least ask him a few questions?

"What's your real name?" I ventured, inching closer. I eased myself into the chair across from him as the Joker grinned.

"Joe Kerr," he said without hesitation. "See, I even have a nametag." He produced from his pocket a clip-on nametag that you'd find on the employees at a department store.

I laughed. "Come on, I'm serious."

"What makes you think I'm not?" he questioned, looking offended.

"Your name can't be Joe Kerr. It sounds like_joker_."

The clown feigned a look of mock surprise. "You don't say! Why, I never noticed."

I rolled her eyes and tried a different topic. "How old are you?"

This time it was the Joker's turn to roll his eyes, and he did so with much exaggeration. "What is this, twenty questions?" The front two legs of his chair hit the floor with a thump. "Because if it is, I do believe it's _my_turn."

"But you didn't even—!"

"Ah ah ah, it's my turn, princess." He scooted his chair back from the table so he could prop his feet onto it. I was far too engrossed to tell him not to. "What's your favorite color?"

"What's my favorite color?" I repeated, not having expected such a simple question.

The Joker impatiently waved a hand to urge her along and I shrugged my shoulders. "Uh, blue, I guess . . ."

"Perfect. Now it's your turn." When he folded his arms across his chest, I couldn't help but notice the way the muscles of his forearms bulged. I quickly looked elsewhere, hoping he hadn't noticed.

"Okay . . . have you always lived in Gotham?"

"No." His quick response surprised me, and I was instantly curious. "Oh. Where did you—?"

"You really don't know how to play twenty questions, do you?" he interrupted. "I do believe it's my turn again."

I sighed indignantly. "Okay, that wasn't fair."

The Joker grinned and leaned his forearms across the table. "Life ain't, sweetheart."

For a moment, we simply stared at one another. It wasn't until the Joker suddenly glanced at the clock and stood from his chair that I realized I had my elbows propped on the table same as him and had been leaning in close to catch his every word. I felt a blush creep over my cheeks and desperately hoped that he hadn't noticed.

"Well princess, I think we'll have to finish our game another time. Daddy's got business to attend to." He didn't look at me as he shrugged back into his heavy purple trench and pulled back on his gloves.

Despite myself, I began to feel disappointment sent in. "You're leaving?"

He turned towards me, cocking his head and miming a pathetic frown. "I know, baby, I'll miss you too." He looked me up and down and shook his head, as if trying to rid himself of my image. He groaned from under his breath.

As he made his way towards my bedroom, presumably to escape via the fire exit, I trailed behind him at his heels like some pathetic little puppy.

"Where are you—I mean, will you—?"

"Forget about you?" he finished for me, pausing to look at me with one leg already out the window as he straddled the sill. "Impossible." He grinned and saluted me with a flourish. "See ya around, cupcake."

And then, suddenly, he was gone, and I was left to wonder what on Earth had just transpired.

**x**

Days passed, weeks even, with no sign of him.

Two months passed next, then three, and four, and finally, five months came and went and I still hadn't seen or heard from the Joker.

I was angry at myself for feeling so disappointed. _God, what is wrong with me?_

After that night where we talked in the kitchen, I found myself purposely leaving my window open some nights, in the hopes that he'd visit and it'd be easier for him to come inside. I rolled my eyes when I thought about it. Even if my windows _had_ been locked, he'd still find a way in anyway.

What was it about him that I liked so much? His brutal honesty, his candidness, the way his eyes seemed to follow my every move? I couldn't pinpoint it, all I knew was that night he left, I hadn't truly wanted him to.

When I reached the third month, still wishing that he'd show up, I began to feel disgusted with myself. _He's a murdering psychopath, Ri; he kills people for a living!_

So why did I so desperately wish that he'd show up again?

I think, subconsciously, I liked the thrill of having him around. Knowing that he could kill me if he so pleased with just a flick of his wrist was strangely exciting for me. And I liked pushing him, testing his limits, so to speak, even if I didn't really mean to. I had always spoken without thinking; my parents could attest to that from an early age.

But there was just something . . . intoxicating about his presence. It excited me that he kept showing up at my doorstep (figuratively, of course.) I mean, why did he want to spend time with _m_e, of all people? In a strange way, I was flattered.

Of course he did scare me. Sometimes, I felt light-headed and short of breath when he got too close. And when he toyed with his knives or threatened me with a blade against my throat—it was enough to set me on edge and remind me of the fact that he could gut me like a fish.

And yet even still . . . I wanted him to come back. I wanted to see him again.

I tried rationalizing my behavior. _I'm just lonely,_ I told myself. Maybe I just needed to get out and socialize more, hang out with some friends and stop waiting around at home for silly men in clown makeup to appear.

From the kitchen drawer I pulled out my address book. The pages were crinkled and stuck together because Nancy had accidentally spilt water on it years ago, and I honestly hadn't looked at it sense.

I took the book to the kitchen table and sat down with a steaming mug of tea. Tucking my leg beneath me, I slowly began peeling the pages apart, searching for familiar faces and good memories. Most of the people in my address book were old friends from college, though a few were relatives and some colleagues from work that I got along well with.

My fingers skimmed the pages and my eyes the names, looking for anyone I thought that I might like to see again. When I came across Ben Saunders, I paused, considering.

Ben seemed nice enough. As a group, we had gone out for drinks together after work for a holiday party one time. I hadn't really spoken to him, but he had sat at the table right in front of ours. _He was definitely handsome_, I mused.

I took a sip of my tea and mulled over the prospect. My disease had left me feeling so debilitated—it was time that I took control of my life and stopped making excuses. I was going to ask Ben out on a date—and that was final.

Quickly, I reached for the phone and dialed his number before my confidence fizzled out. As it rang and the dial tone sounded in my ear, I pulled my bathrobe tighter around myself and took a deep breath.

"Hello, this is Ben speaking."

Ben's masculine voice sounded in my ear, and I tried to make my voice sound equally as pleasing to him.

"Hi Ben, this is Riley, from the office . . . ?"

"Oh, Riley?" He seemed surprised. "Uh, what can I do for you?"

_Oh, God, this is way too spontaneous._I ignored the fact that I had overstepped my comfort zone and tried to sound pleasant. "Well, I know this is sort of out of the blue, but I was wondering if maybe you'd like to go out for dinner this weekend?"

"Oh." I heard him clear his throat. "Actually," he began, "my weekend's just opened up, so dinner would be great."

"Really?"

"Yeah, sure. Where would you like to meet?"

And so it was settled. We decided on a fancy bar and grill on the Upper West Side for Friday night.

Friday. It was only two days away. I could hardly wait.

After work on Thursday, Nancy and I went shopping together for a dress. I modeled various designs for her while she sat outside the dressing room and gave me her candid but honest opinion of each of them.

"Oh, no, dear, not that one." She shook her head adamantly. "You look like a tablecloth."

For the first time in what felt like months, I felt myself laughing. "Come on, it's not that bad!"

"Oh, just try on that red one I picked out!" she urged. "And let me get my camera ready."

I playfully rolled my eyes as Nancy dug through the purse perched on her lap and I went back to my dressing room.

Carefully I slipped into the red dress, already loving the smooth fabric and the way it seemed to hug my every curve, and stepped out into the hall for Nancy to see.

She gasped and covered her mouth with a manicured hand. I had never felt so pleased.

"Look at you, Miss Hot-Stuff!" I laughed as Nancy spun her hand and urged for me to twirl. "Would you look at that," she said, clearly satisfied with her work. "I maybe fifty-one, but I sure do know a thing or two about looking good."

"I really do like it," I said, admiring the dress in the mirror. Tapering out at my waist, the dress fell just above my knees—not too long and yet not too short—and the sleeves hugged my upper arms, my shoulders and collarbones bared.

"You look stunning, dear. Consider it an early Christmas present."

I was so happy I could have danced. "Thank you, Nancy." I kissed my friend on the cheek and she hugged me back warmly.

**x**

The air was frosty and cool when I arrived outside the restaurant. Brown, gold, and red leaves danced around me on the sidewalk as others bustled past, chatting on cell phones or carting briefcases and shopping bags. Yellow taxis were lined all along the curb, waiting for their next customer.

I pulled her shawl tighter around my shoulders as goose bumps rose along my legs. Behind me, the restaurant was glittering with soft, white lights. They were strung all through the potted plants and a particularly gorgeous rose trellis near the front door.

Impatiently, I opened her black clutch and checked my phone for the time. _7:20_. He was late.

As I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, I began to suspect the worst. _What if he stood me up? Would he do that?_

I tried to assure myself that he wasn't that kind of man, but then again I didn't really know him all that well so it was difficult to say.

Finally, at 7:34, he arrived. I couldn't help but notice the way he addressed the cab driver as he got out.

"You fucking imbecile. See if I ever call you again!" The cab driver flashed him the finger as the tires squealed away from the curb. Ben hardly had time to close the door.

He was muttering under his breath when he approached.

I smiled a bit uneasily and waved him over. "Ben, over here."

"Riley." He looked up, startled. "Listen, I'm sorry I'm late." I opened my mouth to reply but Ben cut me off with a frown. "Have you been waiting outside for me the whole time?"

"Well, yes, I wanted to make sure you saw me. I don't have your cell phone number so—"

"God, Riley, you didn't have to do that." He seemed almost annoyed as he looked skywards for a moment. "I mean, Jesus, its cold out." He took my arm then and guided me towards the restaurant without another word. I couldn't help but feel like a little girl with the way he held my upper arm, as if I had just done something bad and he was the exasperated parent, about to berate me for it.

When we were seated at our table, I removed the shawl from my shoulders, slightly annoyed that he hadn't done it for me.

"You look great," he commented, his eyes everywhere but my face.

I half smiled, already turned off by his bizarre manners—or lack thereof. "Thank you."

He opened his menu and glanced through it for all of five seconds before closing it. "Well, I already know what I'm getting." Without a word, he took the menu from my hands and set it atop his on the table. "Trust me, you'll love it."

I raised my brows in shock. I did _not_want him to order for me. Swallowing, I tried to sound pleasant and not bitchy like I was suddenly feeling. "Actually, there are certain foods that I'm not allowed to—"

"Riley, come on, trust me." He smiled charmingly and snapped his fingers for the waiter. "Trust me."

I was appalled at his manners. Why was he being a complete _douche bag_? He had never acted like this at work. I felt then as if I had been cheated.

When our food arrived, the waiter set a steaming plate of lemon-basted tilapia and grilled, peppered shrimp in front of us. I stared down at her plate and inwardly groaned.

"Does everything look alright?" the waiter asked politely.

"Yes, everything's fine," Ben said before I could speak up. "But I would like another dish of melted butter for the fish, oh and some of that coffee you have, from Arabia. But only with fat-free skim milk. No sugar."

"Yes, sir." The waiter was gracious enough not to appear annoyed.

"Oh and more wine, please. My glass is only half full."

"Right away, sir."

When he disappeared, Ben turned back to face me. "So, what do you think? You like it?"

He had obviously failed to notice that I hadn't taken any bites.

"Ben, I . . . I can't eat this."

"Why not? Is it not hot enough? Damn it. I knew it. They always do that."

"No, no, it's not that," I assured him. "It's just . . . I'm allergic to seafood."

Ben looked at her stupidly. "What?"

"I'm allergic to seafood, Ben. I'm so sorry. I tried to—"

"Damn, Riley, you should have said something." His fork clattered to his plate and he looked absolutely miffed.

"I tried," I replied feebly. Inside, I wanted to scream at him for being such a jerk.

"Do you know how much it costs to send food back to the kitchen? This is a five-star restaurant." He paused, taking a deep breath. "Just order whatever you'd like," he said at last.

Feeling guilty, I decided to order a plain salad with a small, half-cup of potato soup. Ben, on the other hand, devoured both of the seafood dinners and then ordered us desert.

We shared a chocolate mousse cake topped with ice-cream and hot fudge as Ben rambled about himself and his interests and gossiped about work. I tried to hide my disdain when he ruthlessly joked about the secretary on the first floor and the co-workers in his department who I had chatted with on more than one occasion. How could he be so cruel to his so-called friends? I could only imagine the nasty things he might say about me when I wasn't around.

I was silent for the rest of the evening, and Ben was fine with that, happy to lead the conversation so he could talk about nothing but himself. It was the biggest turnoff ever in a man. I couldn't believe how arrogant and self-absorbed he was.

Despite my reluctance, we shared a cab back to my place and I smiled politely when it was time for me to get out. "Thank you for dinner, Ben. It was nice."

_Nice_, I thought. That was the biggest _over_statement of the entire year.

"Hey, it was fun."

He got out of the car and shut the door, causing me to frown. "What are you—?"

Before I could finish, he paid the cab driver and he drove off, leaving us alone in the darkness on the sidewalk.

"I thought we could have a drink. You don't mind, do you?"

"Oh, wow." I put a hand to my head. "I don't know, Ben, my house is a mess. I mean, I wasn't expecting . . ."

"Ah, it'll be fine. Come on."

A bit stupidly, I followed him through the lobby and told him what floor to press when we had reached the elevator.

When I opened the door to my apartment and flicked on the light, I was pleasantly surprised to discover that it was flawless. When I had left, there had been shoes scattered everywhere, clothes strewn across the floor, and makeup products all over the kitchen table where Nancy had helped me get ready.

_She must have cleaned everything up before she left._I felt my heart swell and wished more than anything that I could just call Nancy and talk to her about everything. Nancy would understand. She always did.

I opened the door wider to let Ben in. "You got a nice place," he observed, looking around. "Small though."

"I've lived here ever since I graduated from college. It's all I can afford, really."

"Wow."

I wasn't really sure how to take his compliment, so I didn't reply as he went to seat himself at the couch in the living room. I retrieved two wine glasses—careful not to cut myself this time around—and an expensive bottle of wine I kept in the back of the fridge for special occasions.

I seated myself on the couch next to him and poured two glasses as Ben wrapped an arm around me and launched into a story about his ex-girlfriend.

I occasionally spoke up and interjected when I could, but Ben gave little room for leeway and I spent the entire time wishing he would finish his story so I could ask him to leave.

As I was contemplating a fascinating scenario in my head where I "accidentally" spill wine all over his shirt, a small thump suddenly sounded from within my bedroom.

In an instant, my heart stopped and my eyes grew wide. Ben kept on with his story, oblivious to anything but himself, and I put a hand to my chest, as if that might somehow control the drumbeat that was my heart.

_What if he's here? What if he's come back to see me?_

"So she's like, wasted, right? So I told her—"

"Ben," I interrupted. "I'm so sorry, but could you excuse me for just one moment? I really need to use the restroom."

"Oh," he said, mildly disappointed. "Yeah, sure."

I untangled myself rather ungracefully from beneath the heavy weight of his arm across my shoulders and hurried to the bedroom. My heart felt like it was going to burst out of my chest. I promised myself this time I would _not_faint.

When I reached the door, I took a deep breath before pushing it open and flicking on the light.

I searched the room frantically, looking for that familiar purple jacket, those dark, painted eyes, and the grinning, blood-red lips—but they were nowhere to be found.

I felt then that my heart had sunk all the way to the pit of my stomach. My shoulders drooped considerably, and I cursed, hating myself for feeling so disappointed that he wasn't there.

I muttered to myself as I walked to my vanity. I sighed as I looked in the mirror, studying my reflection with the utmost scrutiny. Nancy had done a good job. I hadn't felt so pretty since that one beauty pageant in fifth grade that my mom had entered me in. _If you could only see me now_, I thought. She had always called me her little doll. It was funny now, how much I actually felt like a doll—a very broken and worn-out one.

Sighing, I touched my hair, tucking a sleek strand behind my ear. It was a shame that the night had turned out the way it had. Nancy had gotten me all dressed up for nothing. I was already dreading hearing the rest of that degrading story Ben was so eager to finish.

I smiled sadly as I removed the ring Nancy had let me borrow, setting it beneath the mirror next to my jewelry box.

When I looked up, my eyes widened in shock and I heard myself screaming at the face that stared back in the mirror.

With a hand quickly placed over my mouth, the Joker pulled me back into his chest as the familiar scent of gasoline invaded my senses.

"_Mm_," his laugh rumbled in my ear, making my heart skip ten thousand beats at once. His free hand wrapped around my waist and I felt his scars pressing against my cheek. "Did'ya miss me?"

* * *

_**Author's Notes: **__In 2008, in probably one of the best online viral marketing campaigns ever, the Joker really did deface "Gotham" websites. Check out thehahahatimes(dot)com, bettyshouseofpies(dot)com, and gothamnationalbank(dot)com for a firsthand look at the Joker's chaos. These are just three of 30+ sites the Joker has revamped. You'll have to find the complete list for yourself._ ;)

_Very quickly, I wanted to address a review I recently received from an anonymous user. They mentioned that they feel intimidated or "not worthy to talk to me" because apparently I am some great writer—while that's flattering, I just wanted to say I don't consider myself above anyone—least of all some of the very talented writers within my audience and on this site—and I __**love **__talking to_all_of my readers. Never feel afraid to leave me a review or drop me a message. I promise I'm very friendly and I'll always respond._ _If you have any questions or would just like to get to know me better, feel free to ask anything._


	4. Chapter 4

I gasped into his palm, my heart fluttering within my chest like a wild bird desperate to escape the confines of its bony cage.

_He came back._

He'd actually come back for a third time. I was both excited and terrified, my entire body trembling, but I let myself fall back into his chest, letting him support me even as I marveled at his presence.

How many times had I imagined this exact moment in my head? He'd come stumbling in through the window, bruised and hurt—just like he had been the first time—and I'd urge him inside and sit him down and then stitch his wounds and he'd realize how much he appreciated me for taking such good care of him.

I knew it was childish of me, thinking up these bizarre fantasies, but I could hardly stop myself when my thoughts began to wander in his direction. More importantly, I didn't _want _to stop myself. I liked thinking about him, liked the way it made my heart race and my pulse quicken.

When I attempted to turn and face him, he must have thought I was going to faint, because he secured his arm more tightly around me and grinned against my ear. "You're so weak," he chided, the amusement in his voice unmistakable.

I took more offence to the comment then I should have, but then again, I'd always done that—taken things too personally, especially when it came to my disease.

With much more force than he had probably been expecting, I pushed myself out of his arms and whirled to face him. "I am not weak," I spat at him. The anger on my face was quick to fade though when I looked at him—looked into the face I had been wishing would arrive at my doorstep or in my window for the past five months.

"You look a little _woozy_," he said in that voice that was both high and deep. I could see him half smiling at me, a small upturn of the corner of his lips. For a bizarre moment, I wanted to smile back, but that desire quickly disappeared.

"I'm fine," I assured him, perhaps a little too harshly.

Suddenly I realized that I was mad at him; mad at him for leaving my life for five whole months without even a notice of some kind. And now here he was, back for entertainment—back to see me, of all people—and I was angry at him because in some strange, weird way, I felt abandoned by him. I didn't appreciate that he kept showing up whenever he pleased. I… I had missed him.

If there was one thing the Joker was good at, it was reading people like an open book, and he did just that. He cocked his head and pouted with his lower lip. "Don't be so upset, sweetheart. Daddy's here to make it _all_ better." He stepped closer as if he were going to wrap his arms around me, but I sidestepped out of reach and glared at him. He sighed in exasperation, looking miffed. I couldn't help but notice the way his body tensed as he addressed me, taking a single step forward. "Why the sudden _hostility_?" he wanted to know. "Change of heart?" The sarcasm behind his comment made me want to roll my eyes, but I stopped myself, not wanting to offend him. "Maybe you _will _call the police this time, hm?"

I could hear the challenge in his voice, just daring me to reach for the phone, but I didn't—wouldn't—and he knew it.

So I didn't respond. I didn't know how to without exploding at him in anger. And that was the last thing I wanted to do, not while Ben was sitting alone in the other room, waiting for me.

Shit.

_Ben_ . . . .

What if he _killed_ Ben?

I felt myself pale at the thought. Ben was a jerk—one of the most insufferable men I had ever met—but I certainly didn't want his death on my hands. I didn't want him to die.

Horrible scenarios suddenly flashed through my mind. I pictured Ben on the sofa, drowning in a pool of his own blood while the Joker straddled him, giggling madly as he wielded some sort of bizarre looking knife.

And then another scenario, where this time the Joker suspended Ben out of my living room window. Ben clutched at the Joker's arm and swore as he dangled precariously above the city streets. "Have a nice _fall_," the Joker cackled as Ben's body plummeted to the pavement.

Quickly, I went to the door and locked it. Better safe than sorry.

The Joker quirked his brow. "Is that really nescess-?"

"You have to leave," I told him, almost unbelieving of my own words.

The Joker looked even more confused than before. "Why?" he asked suspiciously, studying me. I watched as his eyes looked me up and down, and I felt ashamed to admit that I may have blushed as his gaze lingered over my curves.

With a slow, wolfish grin he met my eyes. "You're on a date," he said in conclusion, smiling for all that he was worth. "My girl's on a _date_."

"I'm not your girl," I scoffed, even though a strange part of me was secretly excited by his words.

"Aren't you?" He stepped closer, grabbing my wrist before I could get away, and pulled me closer. I smelt the fire and smoke in his clothes and exhaled the dizzying scent, trying to clear my head. "I have you right under my thumb to do with ex-act-_ly_ as I please. I think it's safe to say that you're definitely _my girl_." He stared at me hard, working his mouth in a way that, had we been discussing anything else, would have been entirely distracting. "Say it."

"Wha—what?"

"I said _say it_." When his voice began to rise, I looked nervously at the door and urged him with my eyes to lower his voice. When he did, the effect sent chills down my spine. "Tell me you're my girl."

His demand, coupled with that low, authoritative tone of voice was decidedly frightening. I felt like he was laying claim to me, like I was his and his alone. No one else could have me, not if he had anything to say about it.

And, deep down, I think I sort of liked that. I didn't want to explain it, I _couldn't _explain it… but I'd be lying if I said his words didn't make my heart race. He made me feel wanted, desired—nobody had ever made me feel that way. I had always been a burden, growing up. I felt like such a waste of space, even to my own family. Even back then, Mom and dad had been painfully aware that I was terminally ill, and it made me feel guilty when they'd invest so much time and energy into doing things for me; paying for college, doctor's appointments, birthday gifts, parties. What was the point of it, if I wasn't even going to live past the age of 30?

I knew they loved me, but I also knew that they sometimes had the same thoughts that I did. _What is the point of it all?_

The Joker, though… he lived in the moment. It was a concept that fascinated me. I remember an old friend of my mother's who'd gotten me a motivational book, once. It was chalk full of inspirational stories created to tug at your heart strings and over-used, motivational sages that had been quoted by people who'd been dead for at least a century.

There was one, though, that had stuck out to me. "Live every day as if it were your last."

That was what the Joker did, wasn't it? He didn't fear death—in fact, he welcomed it—and it was this fearlessness that I found so strangely compelling. To live without boundaries, with such freedom of thought and ease of mind. He didn't second-guess himself at every corner, didn't worry about the repercussions of his actions or thoughts….

"_Say it_," he growled, this time grabbing my arm and yanking me towards him. I stared up into his eyes as he towered above me, all black eyes and blood-red mouth and smeared white greasepaint.

I felt the hairs on my arm stand on end. "I'm your girl," I said softly, carefully. I watched the way his lashes moved when his eyes trailed towards my lips, and then suddenly he was pushing me away. I caught myself on the dresser before I could fall to the floor.

"You got any board games, cupcake? I'm in the mood for something uh, _fun_."

I watched as his purple coat flapped at the back of his knees as he strode towards my closet, pulling open the doors and sifting through the boxes on the top shelf.

I opened my mouth in protest, but the only sound that came out was a noise of indignation, and a weak one, at that.

"D'ya have Monopoly?" he asked. "That's my favorite." His coat bunched around his shoulders as he sifted through my closet with distaste. I watched him, mouth agape. Did he_ really_ expect me to play Monopoly with him while I had a date waiting for me on the couch in the other room? "Oh, and I want to be the howitzer," he announced.

"The what?"

With a dramatic sigh, the Joker turned towards me. "The _cannon_, sweetheart." He rolled his eyes. "Don't you know anything?"

I wanted to scream in frustration. Did he even know how _irritating _he was? For a moment I almost preferred Ben's company over his.

"Please," I begged him. "You have to leave. You can't be here."

"Oh _right_," he said, as if he had forgotten that I was on a date. He turned towards me with a devilish grin. "Tell me, who's the _un_lucky guy, hm? Must be pretty charming if he's got you all flustered like you are now."

I furrowed my brows at him in anger. "I'm flustered because you won't _leave_, damn it!"

"Oh, so _I'm_ the one who's got you all flustered," he smiled. "That's cute." He straightened and licked his lips, staring at me. "But let's be honest, doll face, you're not really my type."

Outwardly, I scoffed at him, ignoring the small twinge of hurt I felt inside. What did I care if I wasn't his type? Wasn't that a compliment? _His _type was probably a homicidal maniac with psychopathic tendencies.

"I need you to leave, _please_!" I wanted to urge him towards the window then, but I was too scared to touch him, and he knew it.

"Tell _him_ to leave." The Joker plopped himself on my bed, shoes and all, and reached towards my bedside table for my oxygen mask. I watched as he stretched the rubber strap until I thought it would break in half, but he released it with a sharp snap and then smiled at the sound. "Because I'm staying."

"I can't just tell him to leave!" I cried.

"Sure you can, sweetheart." The Joker licked his lips and then dropped his voice, staring at me. "Because if you don't, then I will."

Both of us went quiet for a moment, me savoring his words and the Joker watching me with those dark, narrowed eyes.

And then suddenly, a knock sounded on the door, shattering the silence. Ben cleared his throat from the other side. "Riley? Are you on the phone or something?"

I looked towards the Joker, panic in my eyes. "Um, yeah, sorry. I'm almost done!" I called.

I waited until his shadow had disappeared from beneath the door before turning back to the mass murderer sprawled across my bed. He had his arms tucked comfortably behind his head and his legs crossed at the ankles. He stared at me innocently. "I'll be _waaaiting_," he smirked.

I glared at him, even if I was secretly relieved that he planned to stay put and not take matters into his own hands. "Don't . . . touch anything."

He shrugged his shoulders and I sighed as I turned towards the mirror, checking my appearance. The Joker watched me from the bed as I smoothed out my dress, and I could feel his eyes on me the entire time, burning little holes into my skin. I felt my cheeks flush with heat and I turned away, heading towards the door.

Strangely, he didn't say anything as I cast one more look over my shoulder at him. It was bizarre, seeing the Joker sprawled across my bed like he was. The same man I had watched terrorize Gotham on the six o'clock news, the man whose face marred the front pages of every paper in town, the man who had killed hundreds of people and didn't feel one ounce of remorse . . . was on my bed.

The only thing I could manage to process further was that my sheets were going to need washed before I could sleep on them. I felt my insides churn as I studied him, praying that he wouldn't be gone by the time I got back.

The door closed behind me with a soft click, and I took a deep breath, feeling strangely breathless. I couldn't even breathe let alone think straight when we were in the same room. Truthfully, I was amazed that I was able to talk to him without pissing myself.

In the living room, Ben had turned on the TV and was flipping through stations, lounging comfortably across the couch as if he owned the place. The glow from the screen illuminated his face and square jaw—and also the wet patch on his shirt where he must have recently spilled his wine. I felt disgusted as I watched him. _What a pig._

He didn't look at me as I entered and gathered our glasses and the empty wine bottle in my arms, carrying them to the sink.

"You don't get very many channels," he complained.

"Sorry," I rolled my eyes, knowing he wasn't looking. "I'm on a bit of a budget."

"Yeah, I can see that." I heard the TV click off and I bowed my head towards the sink, gripping the edge of it and wishing he would just leave already. How did I ask him without being rude? And did I really even care about formalities at this point?

I gasped when I felt warm arms snaking around my waist from behind, and humid, sweet breath in my ear. He smelt like wine and expensive cologne.

"You look really sexy in that dress, you know that?"

Even though I hated him—I felt flattered at the compliment. It had been a while since someone other than Nancy had praised my appearance. "Oh . . . thank you." I swallowed and tried to turn to face him, but he held me still and pushed my hair aside, brushing his lips against my neck.

And I let him. It'd been so long since I'd been touched like this, since I'd felt someone else's hands on me other than my own. Gradually I felt myself leaning into him, and he groaned, planting kisses along my neck with even more vigor.

Eventually we moved to the couch, and at that point I didn't care anymore. He laid me on my back and then his mouth was on mine and I was kissing him. But I didn't want this. I didn't. He had been a jerk the entire evening and I didn't even _like _him. And yet, the way his hands felt on my skin, holding me, touching me, slipping along my waist and hips, I was too desperate to resist him. I hated myself for it.

Gently he laid his body over mine, kissing my mouth as his fingers slipped my dress past my thighs.

I was moving my hands along his chest when I heard it. Or, more accurately and to my horror, we _both _heard it.

It was the sound of a long, load moan from the other room.

_God, no_.

"What is _that_?"

Ben actually laughed at the absurd noise, much to my growing horror.

"Uh, um . . . my neighbors," I sputtered quickly. "The walls—they're practically paper."

I tried to distract him by kissing his mouth again, but he turned his head away and listened as another decidedly male groan sounded.

"It's coming from your bedroom," he said.

"Ben, it's the just the neighbors, please." I tugged on his shirt and tried to distract him with a kiss, but it was hopeless.

"No, it's definitely coming from your bedroom," he insisted. "What's going on?"

As he started to rise from the couch, I felt my heart leap into my throat and I panicked, pulling him back down to the cushions before he could investigate. I spouted off the first excuse that came to mind. "It's… porn," I said quickly. "I—I was watching…." I trailed off, unable to complete the sentence as my cheeks flamed with heat. In the back of my mind, I could imagine the Joker rolling on the floor in laughter. I bit my lip and tried to calm my beating heart.

Ben stared at me.

My cheeks were so hot, I just wanted to melt into the floor.

"I… I didn't know you were into that kind of thing." He stared at his hands for a moment before meeting my eyes. "That's kind of kinky."

Oh, God.

My eyes must have been as wide as saucers, because he smiled, which only added to my embarrassment. "Let me just go… yeah. I'll um, I'll turn it off." I nearly tripped over the coffee table as I sprinted to my bedroom. I flung open the door and then locked it behind me, breathless.

The Joker, perched ever-so-innocently on the edge of my bed, grinned like a Cheshire cat. "Back so soon?"

"What the hell are you doing?" I shrieked, trying but failing to keep my voice down.

"Me? Why, I'm not doing anything." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and said, "What are _you_ doing? Sounds like things are getting pret-ty heavy out there, if you know what I mean."

He looked at my flushed face—flushed for an entirely different reason than what he was probably thinking—and smirked, just barely. It infuriated me.

"Ugh!" I had the sudden urge to stomp my foot at him like a child. "Just… stop making those noises!"

"Listen, doll, I'm getting a little bore_d_ in here. You hurry it up out there or I will. And trust me… you won't want that."

"Just please be quiet. I'll tell him to leave, I promise."

"Then do it." I watched as he snatched a fashion magazine from my bedside table and with a flourish, flounced back onto the bed, propping the magazine on his chest as he flipped through it. I let the door slam behind me as I exited. He had made me look like such a _idiot_, I thought. I was mortified as I played the scene over in my head. I couldn't believe I had told Ben it was a porn movie. Knowing him, the entire office would know about it by the end of the week.

His posture straightened when I entered, and he cleared his throat to prepare himself for his little 'speech.'

"You know, we can watch that, if you want. I mean, if that's what you need to get yourself… um, _prepared_ and everything—"

I cut him off before he could continue further. "No, no, it's… fine." I sighed, putting a hand to my forehead. "Listen, I hate to be rude, but I've suddenly got a headache and I think I'm just going to go to bed. I'm sorry…. "

"Oh." Ben seemed mildly disappointed, but I was relieved he didn't appear as if he was going to push things further or put up a fuss. He groaned as he got up from the couch. "Another time then." He smiled as he approached me, placing his hands on my hips as he tenderly kissed my jaw. "Maybe we can finish what we started, uh?"

I smiled politely and removed his hands. "Perhaps."

He grinned, obviously thinking I was just being coy, and showed himself to the door. "See you on Monday," he said with a salacious wink. My insides curled in disgust.

The second he was out the door, I ran to it and bolted it before rushing to my room where the Joker was waiting.

When I entered, I half expected him to be gone, but he was still there, lying on my bed with his head resting on my pillows, flipping through the latest issue of _Vogue_. Had I been in a better mood, I might have laughed at the absurd picture.

He smiled and tossed the magazine to the floor as I entered, propping himself on his elbows.

"Well well _well_, it's about time."

"You ruined my date," I told him. I leaned against the vanity and folded my arms across my chest.

"He was _obnoxious_," the Joker said flippantly.

"As if _you're_ any better.

"Sweetheart, you _wound_ me. I'm a hell of a charmer. Come over here and I'll seduce you." He patted the bed next to him and wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. I laughed aloud.

"Or _gut_ me." I looked away. "I don't trust you."

"Good," he said lowly. "I don't want you to."

"Well… fine then," I said, for lack of anything better to say.

He grinned. "Fine."

I sighed and looked away, tapping my fingers on the edge of my vanity, knowing that the Joker was staring at me. It made my heart race, the way his stares would always linger just a little too long, and it made me want to know what exactly was going through that head of his.

I heard him toss the magazine to the floor, where it landed among a pile next to my bed next to all the others.

"You have a lot of those," he said.

"I have a subscription."

"Why?"

_Why?_ Why did he want to know?

I almost wanted to pinch myself. I was talking with _the Joker_ about my fashion magazines. My first instinct was to roll my eyes and ask him if he had something better to do than interrogate me about my reading material. But I didn't want him to leave because I was being rude. Not really.

"I don't know." I folded my arms across my chest. "I like looking at the models, I guess."

It was an odd thing to tell the Joker, I knew, but it was the truth. They made me feel better about myself.

"Better or worse?" he asked.

It wasn't until I had processed his words that I realized I had spoken that last part out loud.

I sighed in exasperation, finally turning to face him. "Look, can we talk about something else?"

The Joker put up his hands defensively. "Touchy touchy." I watched as he got up from the bed, pulling Monopoly out from behind his back.

My face paled instantly. "You went in my closet again?"

"Calm down. It was on the top shelf." I stiffened as he grabbed my arm and grinned. "Let's _play_."

The words, coming from his mouth, sounded much more lecherous than he had probably intended. But with the Monopoly box tucked under one arm, he really didn't look all that intimidating.

I felt myself smile, just a little. "I'm going to kick your butt so bad."

The Joker laughed genuinely—one of the few I had ever heard where he wasn't mocking me. "I doubt that, cupcake."

He led the way to the kitchen table where he took great care in setting up the board precisely the way he wanted it.

He didn't ask for it, but I set a glass of water next to him and he finished the whole thing in one gulp, so I poured him another. I wondered when he had last eaten. How did someone like the Joker go about getting food, anyways? He couldn't very well just waltz right into the grocery store.

Well, he_ could_, I suppose, but he'd sure attract a lot of unwanted attention doing it.

I sat down across from him with my own glass of water and watched as he organized all the colorful paper money into neat little piles.

"Who said you get to be the banker? You probably rob banks in your spare time—that's not fair."

"Oh, hush. I'll be honest," he said with a strange lilt to his voice.

"Right. After you just told me I shouldn't trust you."

"I said I don't _want_ you to trust me. I never said I wasn't a man of my wor_d_."

"Anyways… I don't really remember how to play. It's been a while."

I thought back to all the times my father and I had played this when he'd been in the hospital. There wasn't much entertainment to be found when you were confined in bed all day and abhorred things like laptops, cell phones, daytime TV, and iPods. So he'd read or do crossword puzzles, and I'd visit whenever I could so we could play cards, board games, or simply talk. It brought back a lot of bitter memories I wanted to forget.

"Earth to Riley." I was snapped out of my daze when the Joker waved his hand in front of my face. "Your move."

"Oh. Sorry."

I pushed my thoughts aside and we actually managed a pretty decent game between the two of us. I was winning, of course, just like I said I would, and there was something almost cute about the way the Joker was getting so flustered about losing. I caught him trying to steal a handful of 100 dollars bills more than once, and I smacked his hand away before he could slip them up his sleeve.

I was reluctant to admit it, but I was actually having a really good time. I hadn't smiled so much in ages. I was glad that I hadn't gotten all dolled up for nothing. During the game, I caught the Joker's eye more than once, just staring at my face, roaming over my features as I contemplated my next move. _Does he think I'm pretty?_ I wondered. It was a silly thought to have. I mean, he was a psychopath. The thought probably hadn't even occurred to him. But I was still curious, because even when I caught his stare he didn't look away, and I was always the first to break our gaze out of embarrassment.

But I stared, too, when he was too focused on the game to pay attention to me or when he wasn't looking. I stared at his hunched shoulders, weighed down by that impossibly heavy, plum purple trench. I studied the vest underneath in great detail, the pattern of his tie, the little hexagons just barely visible on his dress shirt.

I realized then that the Joker must have put a lot of effort into his ensemble. His clothes were perfectly tailored to fit his frame (save for his pants, which were perhaps just a bit too short for him), and his suit, bizarre as the colors were—was strikingly masculine. I studied his face next, the deep crevices in his scars where the stitches had gone wrong—or been ripped out. I studied the way his dirty white greasepaint had been slathered over his ears and only the skin of his neck was visible. I wondered if he was pale or tan beneath the makeup. His hands were certainly not dark, but what about the rest of him?

I thought about what kind of man he might look like without the makeup, when his clothes were stripped away and he was scrubbed clean. More than that, what did he think of himself? What kind of thoughts flickered across his mind when he looked in the mirror? Did he see the monster staring back at him? Or did he smile and lean in closer, fascinated by his own reflection?

When I let my gaze roam over the dark craters of his eyes, I took my time, wanting to memorize the intensity of his gaze and the way his forehead creased when he pulled his brows together. His eyes were brown, if you looked hard enough, but beneath those layers of thick, sweaty black greasepaint—they appeared black. Sometimes I had to search for the whites of his eyes just to assure myself that he wasn't _really_ a monster and his eyes weren't actually fathomless black holes. All things considered, it wouldn't have surprised me.

When he caught me staring for what seemed the hundredth time that night, I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear as my eyes darted to the board in front of me. Even then, I could feel the heat of his gaze on my skin.

As our pieces moved in a square around the board and the Joker's money supply slowly began to dwindle, I glanced for the first time at the clock and realized it was almost one in the morning.

"Wow, look at the time." I stretched my arms over my head, remembering that I was still in my dress and that Nancy had wanted me to call her as soon as my date was over to let her know how it had went. She'd no doubt be asleep, now.

The Joker twisted to look at the stove clock behind him. "Right." He got up and carried his glass to the sink, which I thought was incredibly considerate, but I didn't say so aloud. For a moment, he just stared out the window. I stood up as well, pushing my chair in and feeling reluctant to fold up our game, but knowing that we weren't going to finish it anyways.

I watched him, watched as his bare hands gripped the edges of the sink just like I had done only a few hours prior. He had such long, elegant fingers—perhaps a little poorly groomed, as far as his chipped nails were concerned—but long fingers nevertheless. I had never noticed before. He almost always wore those dark leather gloves. He seemed almost naked without them, as if he had let one of his most sacred guards down just for me.

But that was probably just me overanalyzing.

With a barely audible sigh he turned towards me.

"I think I uh, I think I _like _you," he said at length.

I felt my heart leap into my throat at his words. But it was a wonderful kind of feeling, sort of like when you find some money you hadn't realized was in the pockets of your jeans, or when you discover that extra tub of ice-cream in the back of the freezer when you thought you had run out.

"You _think_ you like me?"

The Joker smiled at the uncertainty in my voice, moving closer. "Maybe. I'm still on the fence about you." When he twirled a strand of my hair around his finger, I could only stare into his acidic black eyes.

Would it have been absurd for me to admit that I liked him too? I felt the words forming in mouth, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't say them. Something told me he didn't really care to hear the sentiment to begin with.

My eyes flickered to his scars, just for a brief moment—couldn't have been more than a second, really—but he noticed. Faster than I could have imagined, his hands were suddenly on me, gripping my jaw and squeezing it between those long, pale fingers I had just been admiring only moments ago.

"See something you like?"

I couldn't speak. My first instinct was to push him away, to put my hands on his chest and shove him away, but I couldn't. Not when I felt the sudden pressure of a sharp, silver blade against my cheek. I stared at the knife out of the corner of my eye for just a moment, and he smiled.

I managed to slip my tongue over my lips to wet them, but my jaw was still held impossibly tight between his grasp, like he planned to crush my bones just to prove tome me that he could, to show me how fragile I was.

When I met his eyes, his smile widened and he tugged me closer by gripping my jaw. "Wanna know how I got 'em?"

Real fear shot through me, like a rush of cold ice. It was immobilizing. The hairs on my arms stood on end, prickling over my skin.

When I swallowed, I could taste only panic.

_Wanna know how I got 'em?_ His words echoed in my head. That's what the Joker asked his victims right before he killed them, right?

I don't remember how or why I knew this—perhaps I had seen it on the news, or maybe it was an overheard rumor that had been passed carelessly between the seats of the train I took in the morning to work. People always liked to gossip about the Joker. The brave ones did, anyway, the ones who didn't cower at the mention of his very name.

He wasn't going to kill me though. I knew he wouldn't. He'd said so himself. It was this small boost of confidence that made me say what I said next.

"Tell me over dinner?"

My face was a mask of composure even as the words slipped from my mouth without having giving them a second thought. _Did I really just . . . ?_

Asking him to come back—and for dinner, no less—seemed a bit extreme under the circumstances. I tried to convince myself that he was a killer, that he was a bad, bad man and I really shouldn't be so willing to accept his company. But that didn't… it didn't _bother_ me like it should have. It was like he was wearing down my defenses, slowly chipping away at all those walls I had built over the past few years to keep myself from getting too close to others. When I died… I didn't want to hurt. I didn't want to miss people, to get too attached to them. I had even distanced my own family because of it. I had treated them like strangers from another world, refusing to accept their gifts, compliments, words of encouragement, and money. After college, when my imminent death began drawing uncomfortably near, I caged myself. I holed myself up in my apartment, avoiding friends and phone calls from my family. I made myself invisible to the world and mentally killed myself in the process.

And now this _Joker_, this psychopathic, infamous mass murderer had come bursting into my life, making me _feel_ things again—pain, anger, excitement, fear—and I couldn't let him go. I was surprised at how quickly I was becoming attached. I couldn't let him leave again without knowing he was going to come back.

So this was my way of asking him to return—and not after five months time had passed. I didn't want to wait that long. I couldn't. Not for a second time.

As the Joker cocked his head, his grip around my jaw loosened. A smile flickered across his lips, but his eyes were hard. "Are you asking me ou_t_?"

Carefully, I attempted to pry his fingers from my jaw—mindful of the blade still pressed against my cheek—but he didn't let me and my hands fell back to my sides. "And if I am?"

He searched my eyes, as if searching for the punch line to my joke, waiting for the moment when I would laugh and say, "_Gotcha_!" But I never did.

"Then I hope you know what you're getting yourself into." Roughly—almost angrily, I thought—he shoved me away and I went stumbling into the table back first, our game interrupted as little houses and paper money tumbled to the floor.

My chest was heaving as I watched him retrieve his leather gloves from his pocket and slip them on. He turned to leave then, just as abruptly as I had expected him to. But not before stopping short and looking at me over his shoulder, half of his face shrouded in darkness.

"Oh, and uh, I _accept_."

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**__ What an enormous outpouring of support for the last chapter! You guys are the best. I feel so blessed to have you as readers. And on that note, I wanted to apologize for all of my egregious errors in the last chapter. You guys deserve better from me. I had originally written the chapter in the third person POV, and halfway through it I switched to the first person point of view. I got rather sloppy towards the end when I was editing, so I do plan to go back and fix those errors soon._

_This particular chapter is dedicated to Littlesleephead. Thanks for all the kind messages you left on my blog. I genuinely appreciate it._

_So: what actor/celebrity do you envision to play the character of Ben? Let me know!_

_Hope everyone enjoyed reading!_


	5. Chapter 5

Rain.

It pattered gently against the panes of my window as I lay half awake in bed, buried beneath a mountain of covers. In the semi-darkness of my room, I shifted onto my side and glanced at my alarm clock. It was only a quarter past 6. I sighed as I pulled the covers back over my shoulders and settled into the pillow once more, grateful that I could sleep in today. I thought about having to go to work on Monday and it made me nauseous. I wondered if word of my sort-of-hookup with Ben had already made its way around the office. Ben's mouth was, unfortunately, just as massive as his ego, and thus the chances of him spreading the news to every willing ear that would listen was quite large.

God, the last thing I wanted to be was the office slut. Or, worse still, have everyone think I was _lonely _and then _pity_ me for hooking up with someone like Ben.

At the office, my coworkers were well familiarized with the effects of disease. Or, that is to say, they all knew that I was dying, and most of them walked on eggshells around me because of it, like if they offended me, or spoke too loudly, or didn't offer to help me out of my seat I might decease and crumble to a pile of ashes right then and there. I wasn't some delicate flower that might wither at the slightest infraction or gust of wind.

In the early stages, at the beginning of my career, I thought it was sweet at first, how everyone was so sensitive and kind, always wanting to know if I needed water, maybe a small break, if I was feeling okay—but now it just annoyed me. And my annoyance must have visibly shown, because these days, my coworkers went out of their way to avoid me. No one stopped by my desk anymore, and if anybody needed to speak to me, they'd send an email instead of talking directly—even if they were just a cubicle away.

I had become bitter, needless to say, and all I wanted was to be treated like a normal human being; not an innate cripple with some kind of deadly viral infection. I was still human… why couldn't everyone else see that?

My disease, of course, had been a well kept secret at first. But word tends to spread when your coworkers spot you taking pills in the lunch room or when you collapse in the middle of the hallway on the way to your cubicle. They knew something was up. It didn't take long for everyone to find out.

When it came right down to it, the truth was that I _was_ lonely. If my days weren't so closely numbered like they were, there was no way I would have asked Ben out.

_Why do I do this to myself? _I found myself asking. Why did I always settle for the least best thing? More than that, why did I always trick myself into thinking I didn't deserve the absolute best? I was reasonably good-looking, smart, liked sex, and had a good sense of humor most of the time. What more could a guy want?

_A girl who isn't counting the remaining days of her life on a calendar, maybe,_ my mind taunted.

Was that a cruel conclusion to come to, or just the blatant truth of reality? I mean, what guy was going to want to date and possibly even fall in love with someone who had a scheduled death date? Especially at my age, when most of my friends were settling down, buying houses outside the city, having children, raising a family, the whole nine yards.

Then my thoughts turned to the Joker, and with a jolt I shot up as memories of last night came flooding back. Had all that _really _happened? Had I really sat until midnight in my kitchen and played Monopoly with a murdering psychopath?

It sounded too bizarre to be real, but the monopoly board on my dresser—which I had failed to return back to the closet—said otherwise.

I played last night's conversation back in my head as I settled back into the pillow, reminiscing on everything I'd said and all the things I hadn't.

As wrong as it felt, I couldn't help but smile. I _liked_ being around him. Even though he was infuriating, even though he did unspeakable, horrible, treacherous things… I liked him, almost shamelessly so.

_What is wrong with me?_

Not only that, but I had invited him to dinner. _To dinner_. As if we were two normal people going on a normal date.

But the Joker, by all means, was not normal. He was practically _inhuman_.

And I… I wasn't normal either. I was a dying, lonely, self-loathing recluse, hanging onto my life by barely a thread.

Maybe that's why I was so… intrigued by him? Because the two of us really weren't normal. Maybe I liked him because he was exhilarating, because he'd given me a certain rush of chilling excitement that I hadn't felt in quite some time. He was… deadly.

More deadly than my disease.

He could kill me at any time and that… that didn't excite me, per say, but it made my heart race and my body tense in a way that it never had before. Having him around was a constant adrenaline rush.

I pulled the covers back from my legs and padded to the bathroom out in the hall. I stared into the mirror as I stripped off my clothes. I wondered if he would come back tonight. I wondered if he would make me wait three months. Or four. Or maybe seven.

In the shower, I tried to clear my thoughts and erase everything from my mind as the hot water rained down from overhead and heated my skin.

Try as I might, I could not stop thinking about him.

When I finished, I changed into sweats and a t-shirt, deciding that I'd spend the day at home. It was my favorite thing to do on rainy days, and I called Nancy around 7:30 to cancel our day. We had planned to do some grocery shopping for the week, but I told her I would be fine for another day or two. She was mildly disappointed, as I knew she would be, and when she asked me about my date I shrugged into the phone and told her that Ben really wasn't all that great.

"I'm not crazy about him," I said as I spread jam over a bagel, cradling the phone between my ear and shoulder.

"Oh, sweetie, maybe you should just give him another chance? He was probably nervous and not acting like himself. You know how it is."

I didn't feel like contradicting her. "Yeah, maybe." I watched the rain drops slide against the kitchen window, waiting for Nancy to speak again.

"Well dear, you just call me if you need anything."

"I will."

After we hung up, I put the phone back in its cradle and retrieved my bagel and luke-warm coffee to take into the living room. I turned on the TV and settled into the couch. I watched an hour of Gilmore Girls, initially, and then decided to watch a minute or two of the local news before starting my day.

What I saw shocked me.

Across the bottom of the screen, in big, white font, was literally the last thing I would have expected to read.

'Joker saves Hundreds of Innocent Bystanders'

_What_?

"If you're just tuning in with us, we're standing just outside Gotham City Bank where a bizarre turn of events has just taken place only minutes ago," the newscaster said, holding the microphone closer to her lips. She stood poised just in front of the yellow caution tape that blocked her from getting any closer to the building. "Security footage which we've just obtained shows the Joker seemingly _foiling_ an attempted robbery and ultimately saving the hundreds of workers inside from a catastrophic explosion."

"Local officers are baffled by the turn of events, and wonder if the Joker is somehow behind the scheme. We'll have more on the story when we return."

I could only gape at the screen.

The Joker… _saved_ people?

That was definitely new. And unexpected. And… why? Why would he do that?

I watched the segment for another hour, until they ran out of information and kept repeating the same thing over and over.

The Joker had deactivated the bomb, he'd severely wounded the three robbers involved in the heist, but not killed them. No hostages were harmed. The Joker had gotten away. That was all they knew.

Later, they interviewed some of the hostages. One of them commented on seeing the Joker from under their desk, where they were hiding, and saying how "happy" he looked.

"As in crazy?" the reported asked.

"No. Just… happy. Like… content."

Not one single reporter knew what to make of the comment.

I didn't, either.

It was such a strange thing to say about the Joker, but when the security footage was at last revealed, I realized it was an apt description. He did look, oddly enough… content. He was grinning and even skipping a little as he walked out the front doors of the bank and disappeared.

It was probably one of the strangest and most confusing things I'd ever seen.

And I spent the entire weekend thinking about it, unable to erase the Joker from my thoughts, no matter how hard I tried.

* * *

On Monday, when I arrived at the office, I was jolted back to reality.

As I made my way to my desk, the stares I received and the sudden, hushed whispers were more than enough to confirm that Ben had blabbed something about us, and undoubtedly the whole office now knew about our date the other night.

I walked stiffly to my desk and sat down, trying to appear oblivious to the heat of everyone's stares. _Why did everyone care so much?_ I thought exasperatedly. Are people really so desperate for such inane gossip?

To my left, I heard the squeak of wheels and suddenly my coworker Samantha was in my small cubicle next to me, casually leaning back in her desk chair.

"Good morning," she said, her tone cool and smooth.

"Morning," I replied, almost cautiously. I glanced back over into her empty cubicle that was across from mine. We rarely spoke, and when we did, it was to exchange news about the broken printer. That was it. My eyes wandered back to her. "Can I… help you with something?

Samantha smiled knowingly and fixed her too-tight, black pencil skirt. Her red heels were skyscraper tall and matched her lips. "I heard about you and Ben the other night," she revealed, as if this information was meant to shock me.

"Oh, did you?" I feigned nonchalance. "That's good. Great, even. We had a nice time on Friday," I lied.

"Sure sounds like you did." She leaned back in her chair, folded her arms across her chest. "Said you were screaming his name all night long. Must have been good."

I paused.

Suddenly the sun pouring in through the floor-to-ceiling windows across the room was entirely too bright. I felt my mouth go dry.

"Wh—what?"

Samantha laughed, placing a manicured hand over her mouth. "Oh, goodness, please tell me you _know_." At my confused looked, she continued on. "Well, he's already told the whole office of course. Everyone's talking about you. Him. Together. _Three_ times. I have to say, you sure have a lot of stamina considering your… well, you know." She shrugged, the name of my disease clearly not important enough for her to ponder over. "But everyone's saying how nice it was for him to do that for you. I'm sure it's been a while for you and all."

My mouth felt like the Sahara Desert. I was too shocked to be offended by the meaning of her words. "But we didn't… I mean, we never…. "

"Sweetheart, please, your face says it all. I just wanted to tell you before you heard it from somebody… less informed." She raised her brows then, suddenly interested as she leaned closer, "So was he good?"

_Good? _

I was going to puke.

"Excuse me." I pushed back my chair and she rolled hers out of the way as I burst from my cubicle—breathing hard and seeing stars—as my eyes quickly scanned the room for _him_.

Everyone was staring at me, I could feel the heat of their gazes over my entire body and I felt _naked_, exposed, like I was walking around the office in nothing but my underwear and it was humiliating. I could feel the heat rising to my cheeks, but I willed it to go down. I was not about to let Ben have the last word. Not by a long shot.

That _asshole_.

I found him, quite unfortunately, (or maybe not so, as I was about to find out) in the center of the office, near the water coolers in the hallway where everyone from their miniscule cubicles could watch us with their roaming eyes.

Well, so be it then.

When his colleagues saw me approach, saw the anger plain as day written across my face, they said their goodbyes and abandoned him.

Ben, though, smiled at me, oblivious. "Well good morning," he greeted, his smile too big, his eyes too far apart. It was in that moment I realized he wasn't even all that attractive.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" I snapped, watching as the cocky grin melted right off his face.

He tried his best to plaster it back on. "Baby, I don't know what you mean…."

"Don't 'baby' me. How could you tell everyone that we had sex last night when we _didn't_? I didn't even take my clothes off and you—you—"

"Riley, please." He smiled uncomfortably, glancing at those watching us, and tried to pull me out of the hallway, away from the wandering eyes. I refused, ripping my arm out of his grasp.

"Answer my question."

"You need to calm down," he whispered, his face right in mine. His cologne was so strong I wanted to gag.

I scoffed at him instead.

"Listen to me," he began, "I don't know what the fuck your problem is, but I was trying to do you a favor."

"A favor?" I asked incredulously, aware of the way my voice was rising, but not bothering myself enough to care. "How do you call slandering my name around the office and making me look like some desperate slut a _favor_?"

It was quiet then. Really quiet. I knew all eyes were on us.

Ben swallowed, and I could see in his eyes that he was starting to backtrack. Time to try a different angle, maybe. He could feel the eyes of his peers on him, and he was eager to please. His tone was gentler this time as he took a tentative step towards me.

"Baby, please, I thought we had something special…."

"_Special_? The only thing 'special' about last night was the unimpressive size of your _dick_."

An audible gasp rose from the cubicles around us, and I couldn't believe what I had just done. I hadn't actually seen his dick, but nobody knew that.

And anyway, saying that felt so fucking incredible.

Adrenaline coursed through me, every nerve standing on end—my heart racing, pounding in my ears like a drum—and it was wonderful and it was horrible, I couldn't decide. I tried steeling my shoulders as I pointed an accusing finger into his chest.

"And you're a _terrible _kisser."

And on that dramatic note, I went to my desk, collected my purse, and stormed out. The office had never been more silent during my departure.

It wasn't until I was in the elevator that I realized _everyone_ in the office had heard our exchange.

And that I was probably going to be fired from my job.

Outside, I hailed a taxi and hurriedly ducked inside, my face flaming because I knew my coworkers must have been watching me from the window.

I gave the driver my address and fished my phone out of my purse to call Nancy right away.'

"You did _what_?"

In the back of the cab, I was breathing hard, and what felt like a panic attack was really just a consequence of me not taking my medication this morning. My legs were shaking.

"Don't worry," she said, "I'm going to take care of everything and explain the situation to your boss. Everything will be fine."

I shook my head, wanting to believe her words. I leaned my head against the window. Buildings darted past in my peripheral vision and I closed my eyes to fight the oncoming headache.

"Nancy, you should have seen the look on everyone's faces. Their jaws were on the floor."

"That's probably because you had the balls to say to Ben what most of those other girls had wanted to say but did not."

There was silence between us for a moment.

"Did you just say 'balls'?"

"I did, and please don't make me repeat that again."

I smiled despite myself.

"Thank you," I said.

"You're welcome." Her tone was gentler now. "I just wish you would have told me how you really felt about him. I was under the impression he 'wasn't half bad'."

"I know, and I'm sorry. I just didn't want you to be disappointed."

"That you had a bad date? It happens to all of us, at least once."

I took a deep breath as I saw my apartment come into view. "Thanks for listening to me freak out."

"You're welcome. Now you go home and get some rest. I'll call your boss, we'll go to your appointment tomorrow, and everything will be fine."

"Nancy, you don't have to call him. I can do it myself. I really don't want you to have to do that. Besides, it'll be better if my apology comes from me."

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely. I'll handle it."

"Okay. Just take it easy, dear, and I'll see you tomorrow."

After we hung up, I paid the driver and wearily climbed the stairs up to my apartment. I was so done with today. How would I ever be able to step foot inside my workplace again? I mean, sure, I'd verbally humiliated Ben in front of everyone—and Nancy was right, I'm sure many of the women at the office had wanted to do the same thing, after what he'd probably put them through—but I still didn't feel very good about it. It was embarrassing; I never had outbursts like that, least of all at work. It was unprofessional and uncouth and childish and—

Okay, maybe I felt a _little_ good. Ben deserved that… even if my insult towards him carried no validity since I didn't have any idea as to the size of his dick. What was he going to do about it? Tell the entire office the truth, that we really hadn't had sex, that he couldn't even seduce the pants off of a pathetic, dying woman?

Doubtful.

I mulled over it as I changed out my work attire and into some sweats and a t-shirt. I suppose the good news was that I had the rest of the day off to do as a pleased. Couldn't complain about that.

I did call my boss straight away though. We had a good standing with one another, but I was still relieved when she told me not to worry about it, so long as I was there tomorrow and didn't let it happen again.

"If it's serious, you can file charges," she added.

"For spreading a rumor around the office?" I shook my head, even though she couldn't see. "I wouldn't want that." I paused. "I am sorry about my outburst though."

I heard a sigh on the other side of the phone. Then, "To be honest, it was quite amusing. And if we're off the record, I have no doubt he deserved what you said."

We talked for a minute or two longer before hanging up, and I was relieved knowing I wouldn't lose my job.

I took my medication then—since I had forgotten to earlier in the morning—and settled onto the couch with a book. I dozed off and on in between reading, and around four thirty finally got up to start dinner. I was stirring soup and slicing a loaf of bread on the cutting board when a knock sounded on my door.

At first I thought it was Nancy, only until I remembered she wasn't coming until tomorrow.

I wracked my brain for who else could possibly be visiting when I thought back to Ben. He knew where I lived now, what if he was coming to yell at me?

_Oh, God,_ I did not want to deal with that.

When the knocking became more persistent, I turned down the heat on the stove and wiped my hands on a nearby dishtowel, carrying it with me as I went to the door.

There was a loud bang on the door then, as if someone had slammed their body against it, and somehow I knew it was Ben, and he was angry.

"I'm coming!" I shouted, mentally preparing myself for the verbal laceration I knew I would receive.

Except, when I opened the door, it wasn't Ben.

It took me a split second to recognize him—only because he was truly the last person I had been expecting to knock on my front door and he wasn't wearing the usual purple suit I was so accustomed to—but it was definitely the Joker and _oh God, he's wearing a _black_ suit. _

He pressed his lips together and clasped his hands behind his back, which shouldn't have looked as adorable as it did.

"Are you going to invite me _in_?" he asked, bouncing on his heels a little.

"How did you—how did you get in?"

"The front entrance? You know, those things called _doors_ that people use to enter and exit build-_ings_." He licked his lips. "I actually had quite a nice chat with your landlady in the uh, elevato_r_."

"But... she's blind."

"Mhm."

"How were you not recognized in the lobby?"

"Don't know. But I'm going to be recognized in about five seconds if you don't let me in."

"What are you… ?"

At the end of the hall, the elevator chimed and the doors slid open to reveal a couple stepping out. They looked up just as I grabbed the Joker's arm and quickly pulled him in without another thought, closing the door behind him. My heart was beating unnecessarily fast. I let go of his arm and stepped back.

He was smirking at me when I raised my head to meet his eyes.

"I told you."

I was silent as my eyes trailed his frame. I'd never seen him in anything but the dirty, purple suit, and he looked maddeningly handsome dressed in black. He'd even washed out his hair. The greasepaint looked freshly-applied. Self-consciously, I crossed my arms over my stomach, blurting out the first thought that came to mind.

"I feel so underdressed."

The Joker laughed at that, a genuine chuckle I hadn't expected, and it made me smile too, just a little.

"Don't tell me you forget about our da_te_, sweetheart." He tapped my nose with the tip of his finger, smiling down at me like I was some cute little puppy.

"I—I didn't think you'd show up today," I stuttered. "I mean, it's a _Monday_."

"So?"

I shrugged helplessly, at a loss for words. I wasn't about to explain to him that most people typically had dates on the weekend—and anyway, this wasn't a date. Not really. I don't know what it was, but it wasn't a date. Calling it a date was just a funny little pretext for me wanting to spend time with a homicidal maniac.

Which was completely and utterly not normal. Or morally okay.

"I should change," I offered quietly, feeling awkward standing there in front of the Joker in my sweats and ratty t-shirt.

"Why?"

"Because I'm not dressed."

"You don't look naked to me. Although you're more than welcome to _get_ naked if you want."

His face was perfectly neutral when he said it, his tone serious, and I scoffed at him.

"No, thank you."

He smiled to himself then—bowing his head and grinning as if he'd just told some joke only he understood—and walked past me to the stove, sniffing at the steam that rose from the soup.

"Would you like some?" I asked, moving towards him.

He didn't reply as I grabbed two bowls from the cabinet, ladling soup into each of them. I sliced him bread next, lathered it in butter, and then poured a glass of water for him. I carried everything to the table myself. He watched me in silence the entire time, leaning against the counter, his eyes trailing my every move, making my hands shake and my cheeks flush. It was sort of wonderful.

As he took his seat at the table, I couldn't help but notice how calm and relaxed he seemed; he wasn't as bouncy and charged as he usually was, which struck me as odd. Had he finally let his guard down around me? Was that what it was? And the black suit… God, he looked handsome in that. If it weren't for the greasepaint, he would have been practically unrecognizable.

"Are you going to si_t_?"

The quiet lilt to his voice broke me out of my thoughts, and it was then that I realized he'd caught me staring at him.

"Sorry."

I pulled out a chair and took my seat across from him, smiling a little because I'd just apologized to a homicidal maniac who killed people for a living. That probably should have concerned me more than it actually did.

_I am so fucked_.

I watched him bring the spoon to his lips to taste the soup I'd made, and it was just so weird, seeing the Joker sipping soup at my kitchen table, as if the two of us had been friends for years and were enjoying a nice get together.

Then again, after the other night, where we'd played _Monopoly_ together… this really shouldn't have surprised me as much as it did.

"Got a lot on your mind, doll face?" The sarcasm in his voice was evident, but I ignored it.

I looked up from my soup, realizing that I'd been swirling the broth around my spoon.

"I was just thinking."

"Bad day at the off-_ice_?"

"You could say that." I paused, wondering if the Joker actually cared to hear the story of what happened. When the silence between us persisted, I decided to tell him. "I sort of humiliated myself today in front of everyone… and I told one of my coworkers he had a small dick. In front of the entire staff."

The Joker paused, his brows furrowing and his mouth pulling into a funny little smile. "Did you?" He seemed awfully pleased about that. "Good girl." He scooted forward in his chair, suddenly grinning. "And who got your panties all up in a knot, hm?"

I frowned at him. "No one got my…" I sighed. "It was nothing. I shouldn't have yelled at him like I did. It was embarrassing."

The Joker mimed a sad face and cooed sympathetically. "You poor doll. Men are such meanies."

"Says aman," I scoffed.

The Joker cocked his head, his eyes darkening as his scars pulled taught around his mouth. "Oh, but my dear, I am so much more than just a _man_," he grinned, the red of his greasepaint catching the light from above, making his lips gleam like blood.

I heard myself exhale breathily, captured by the intensity of his gaze and the look in his eyes. No one could hold your gaze like the Joker, so unflinchingly, without shame, like he could see past the flesh and the bones and was looking into the very core of who you were. He could shame you into telling all of your dirty secrets in one penetrating glare, I was sure of it.

He could also make you piss your pants in pure _terror_ with a single look, but that was a different story.

The Joker was the first to break the spell. "Aren't you going to ask me about _my_ day?"

"Oh… how was your day?"

The Joker paused, pursing his lips as if deep in thought.

"_Ugh_." He rolled his eyes, suddenly annoyed. "Can you c'mere?"

"I… what?"

"Here." He gestured to the empty space next to him.

I frowned. "What's wrong with where I'm sitting?"

In response, the Joker lowered his head and narrowed his eyes.

I need no further convincing.

"Oookay."

I pushed my bowl next to his and stood, lifting my chair and placing it so we were side-by-side. "Better?"

"Much." His gaze searched mine and he grinned a little, tilting his head. "Now I can look into those _bee-yuo_-tiful blue eyes of yours while we're talk-ing."

I averted my gaze, my natural response for the rare occasion that I received a compliment from someone other than Nancy.

"No, no, don't look away." He put his elbows on the table, leaning so close that he was practically over my soup as grabbed my jaw and turned my face so I was looking at him. He must have seen something in my eyes because his lips turned upwards in a devilish grin. "Oh, you_ are_ scared of me, aren't you?

"Of course I am."

"But not as scared as you should be," he offered, letting go of my chin slowly, his fingertips brushing against my jaw as he placed his elbows back on the table. "Now," his grin slipped from his face. "Don't you have something you want to ask me?"

I licked my lips, tasting the lingering scent of his glove that had accidentally brushed there. "Why did you save those people at the bank?"

He smiled, leaned back in his chair. "So you _did_ see! Don't be coy. Go _on_. What did you thin_k_?"

"I… well, I don't know. Why did you do it?"

"Why… _not_ do it?"

"Because you kill people. I'm not going to pretend I don't know that," I shrugged. "So why save them?"

He closed his eyes, put his hands to his temples for a moment. "No, no, _no_," he fussed. He met my eyes once again. "You're _missing _the poin_t_. I don't just kill people. It's not about _killing_. Anybody can kill. Criminals do that every day. No… what I do is _play the game_."

He paused to let his words sink in, but I still had no idea what he was talking about. "What game?"

He smiled. "There are two types of people in this world, sweetheart." He leaned in close. "There are the people who _exist_—who go day to day about their lives, fretting over the little tiny things and avoiding the _drama_ when they can—and then there are the people who _live_. People who do what they want to do because they _want_ it, people who are unafraid to step outside the boundaries of society. People like… me."

"I still don't…"

"You. It was for _you_," he clarified with annoyed sigh. "Aren't you flattered?"

"Flattered? You probably planned the whole thing!"

The Joker looked taken aback. "I'm hurt you would think that."

I put a hand to my head, confused by his weird confession. "You… you did all that to impress me?"

The Joker only shrugged in response, looking awfully coy and innocent and pleased as he finished his glass of water and got up from his seat. I watched him wander towards the couch in the living room, plopping himself on it as he reached for the remote and flicked on the TV.

The local news channel was still on from earlier that morning, and they were still covering the incident, replaying the security footage of the Joker in the bank. He hollered with laughter as he watched.

"Look how handsome I am!" He pointed at the TV, all smiles and grins, like a little boy watching his favorite show. "How can you not swoon over a face like _that_?" He gestured to the TV with the remote, then leaned his head against the back of the couch with a grin and looked at me. "Aren't you just the luckiest gal."

"Something like that," I said. I was too busy thinking over the Joker's previous words to pay much attention to him. Had he really saved all those innocent people for me? To—in his own weird way—_impress_ me?

I didn't know what to think about that. Why did he want to impress so much, anyway? My heart fluttered at the thought that he might like me, like, _really_ like me, as I carried our empty dishes to the sink.

I realized that I shouldn't have been so flattered that a psychopath had taken interest in me, but I was. I wanted him to like me. I wanted him to be as interested in me as I was in him. That was only natural, right?

He fascinated me, more than I wanted to admit, but the truth was there, right alongside the guilt that sat heavy on my chest.

The sounds of the TV drifted in from the other room, but I paid little attention to them as I scrubbed the dishes clean, staring at the soup bubbles and lost in my own thoughts.

"C'mere."

I turned to find the Joker sitting back against the couch, his long legs propped on the coffee table, his black jacket taken off to reveal a white button up shirt.

"What?"

"I said put those dishes away and _come here_."

I didn't need to be told twice. I let the dishes fall into the sink and wiped the soap of my hands with a dishtowel, tossing it on the table as I walked towards the living room. The Joker, once again, followed my every move with his eyes.

"Sit," he ordered.

I sat.

"Clo-ser," he whined. "We're _friends_, aren't we?"

I wasn't given time to reply when he tugged on my wrist and quite literally dragged me towards him. I brushed the hair out of my eyes, suddenly realizing I was face-to-face with his chest, and quickly up-righted myself before I could stare. He loped a lazy arm around my shoulder, releasing a content sigh.

When I looked down, I realized he had kicked off his shoes to reveal multi-colored socks.

Oh geez.

"Are you going to answer me?"

"Hm? What did you ask?"

"I asked if we were frien_ds_."

"Oh." I cleared my throat. "I suppose."

The Joker laughed, an action that made my cheeks flush with delight. _I'd_ done that.

"Then as your frien_d_ can you please relax?" He shook his head. "You're as rigid as a board and I don't. Like. That."

"Sorry." I did as he asked and let myself slump a little, letting down my walls of defense and leaning into him with a little more weight. Being this close to him, I could smell… soap. And the faint scent of some sort of cologne or aftershave. It was strange, after becoming so accustomed to the scent of smoke and gasoline that usually clung to him.

But it was decidedly nice. Like this, I could almost pretend that he wasn't the Joker, that he was just another normal guy… even though a part of me didn't want to pretend that. I knew it was wrong, and I felt horrible and guilty for liking someone who killed people for a living… but there was just something about him, something special. Something that—when you looked into his eyes, or when he spoke—that made you forget he was the crazy murderer the daily news channels and papers made him out to be. Maybe he was just misunderstood? Was that so crazy of a concept?

"Can I ask you something?"

The Joker turned to look at me. Waiting.

"Do you think that… killing people is wrong?"

I watched his expression with interest, noting the small smile that graced his lips before he smacked them together with a pop. "Does it really_ matter_?"

"Of course it matters," I said. "I want to know if you're consciously aware of the fact that you're—"

"No," he interrupted. "I said _does it matter_?"

I shook my head. "I'm not following…."

"I don't . . . care if something's wrong. Or if it's right. I'm not here to break the world and I'm not here to _fix_ it. I just… am."

"But don't you think the world would be a better place if everyone was good? If everyone did what was right?"

The Joker removed his arm from my shoulders, and immediately I missed the contact. He turned to face me full-on instead, tucking one leg beneath him, like a child. Suddenly he was excited, the commercials in the background fading out as I focused solely on his voice.

"You're an optimist, are you?" He licked his lips, cocked his head. "An _idealist_. How's that working for you? Have you convinced yourself yet that you're not going to _die_? That there's still a uh, vestige of _hope_ for you?"

I frowned at that. It was odd the way he talked about my disease, like it was just some random occurrence in life. And it was, I suppose, it was just that I was so used to people addressing the topic with delicacy and courtesy; people always felt as if they needed to walk on eggshells whenever the subject came up.

But the Joker was blunt. No need for delicacy. He was simply stating a fact of life as he saw it. People died daily of my disease. What made me so special?

"I know that I…" It took me a moment to form the words, to say the truth aloud. "I know that don't… have much time left."

The Joker grinned, his eyes alight with some dark fire. "That's a _good_ girl." He drummed his fingers against his thigh in a staccato rhythm. "Let me tell you something. This one's for free," he said, waving a dismissive hand. "The politicians and the bankers and the doct-ors will all feed you _juuust_ what you want to here. The economy _will_ get better, someday you _will_ get out of debt, we _will_ find a cure for your disease." He snorted. "They're all lies. Lies they feed you in the hopes that you'll _give_ them something. Your time, your money, your vote. Y'see… nobody really _cares _about us. Not unless we become_ useful_." He snorted. "I don't wanna be useful."

"There are good people out there though." _Like Nancy_, I wanted to say.

This is where the Joker shook his head. He leaned forward and taped the center of my forehead with his pointer finger at each emphasized word. "There are. No. Good. People. Only people who want to do good_ things_. And fail." His tongue traced his lower lip. "But you see, when given a choice… people will always choose to save themselves. Me myself and I. They'll sacrifice the stranger, the friend, the brother, the sister. It's a dog-eat-dog world, and we're just here to save our own skins."

"That's not true. I've _seen _people sacrifice themselves for others. Soldiers do it almost every day."

The Joker leaned in close, his blood-red scars fleshy and tight and catching the flickering light from the TV. I watched the way his eyelashes fluttered as his gaze dropped towards my mouth, and then he was looking up to meet my eyes. His voice was a whisper across my skin. "That's because they haven't been pushed to their _limit_." He smiled, and his hands were running up my arms suddenly. I was too focused on his words to pull away, drinking in every syllable that escaped his lips. "Everyone has limits, invisible barriers they aren't willing to _break." _His hands traveled farther. "Will it be my neck or yours?" he wondered.

As the Joker said this, his hands gripped my neck and he squeezed it tight.

"According to human nature, it'll be _yours_."

And then, with a sudden, sickening feeling of terror, I thought, _God_, I'd done it this time. He was going to kill me. He was going to snap my neck to prove his point and it'd be all over. I never should have questioned him, never should have tried to question his reasoning. Never should have invited him for dinner. Never should have patched up his stitches. Should have called the cops when I'd had the chance….

I couldn't breathe, and he only squeezed tighter. Dots chased my vision. Eyes fluttered closed. Heart raced. This is how I was going to die.

And then… just as his grip tightened one final time and I choked for air—my hands rising to my neck instinctively to pry his grip—suddenly he let go and I gasped for air, falling forward into his lap as I wheezed. My limbs were shaking.

When my eyes opened several moments later, the Joker was holding my oxygen mask in his lap. I hadn't even been aware he'd gotten up from the couch to get it. I snatched it from him and pressed it to my mouth, taking in precious lungfuls of oxygen while my body trembled.

His was sitting Indian style now as he faced me, watching me with hooded eyes as I tried to calm myself.

"We're one in the same, you and I. We've both accepted death." He looked down as he said it, flexing his fingers in his lap. He raised his head only slightly to meet my eyes. "You're just trying to put it off for as long as the clock allows."

Weakly, I pushed him away with my hand, still holding my oxygen mask to my mouth with the other.

"You're an asshole," I mumbled.

He leaned forward and took my oxygen mask from me. "You like it."

And then he grabbed my chin, pulled me forward, and kissed me.

Any response I had planned on conjuring in reply died in my throat. My eyes closed instinctively.

The Joker had practically just strangled me and now he was kissing me and I was… letting him. I felt his fingers bruising my jaw and tasted the sharp paint on his mouth. He pulled away after a hard kiss and then leaned back, sighing happily.

"Well toots, it's been a blast, but I gotta go."

He got up from the couch and I watched him, speechless from his kiss, as he put on his jacket and slipped on his purple gloves.

Had he really just done that?

I swallowed, still trying to wrap my brain around how fast everything was moving.

"Wait, you're leaving?"

"People to torture and all that. You know how it is."

"Um…."

"Soon."

"What?"

"I'll see you _soon_," he said, with a dramatic roll of his eyes, like I was the world's biggest moron.

"Okay?"

He winked.

And then he was gone.

And despite everything we'd talked about, despite the fact that he'd nearly strangled me to death, there was only one stupid, idiotic thought I could manage.

_The Joker just kissed me._

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**_ _I'm not sure if many of you are still out there reading this story… but I do apologize that it's been nearly an entire year since my last update. Putting this chapter together was an incredibly lengthy process, and at some point I gave up and put it aside because the inspiration wasn't there. After receiving many requests to continue, I finally kicked myself into gear and was able to piece the chapter together. Additionally, chapter six is nearly complete, and I hope to have posted soon._

_If you're out there still reading, or if you're a new reader… let me know? As always, thank you guys for your kind comments and support!_


	6. Chapter 6

It was two days later when the Joker came back.

Only this time Riley was not home.

_Hm_.

He was surprised, initially. Her outing was decidedly not scheduled—and he knew that because he checked her calender with furtive glances when he was over and he knew she wasn't looking.

Wherever she was, he had a feeling she wouldn't be gone for long. And so, with no other plans for the day, he decided he would wait for her. He was starting to grow _fond_ of their little get-togethers, after all. And she was an eggs-ellent cook. Pun intended.

The next half-hour was spent lounging on her bed, flipping through magazines. It was only when he grew bored of those that he decided to venture beneath the bed, where he discovered some of the old journals she'd stashed there. Most of them were pretty boring, just a checklist of daily things she had done throughout her day, the frustrations with her disease, her parents, etc. There was only thing that managed to pique his interest, and that was the mention of the mysterious man by the name of "John." His name was listed at least once in every entry, but only in passing, and always in past tense, as if he were gone and she would never see him again.

In earlier journal entries, the Joker found entire letters addressed to John, letters that mostly showered him in affection and praise, but then others that questioned his behavior, letters that asked what she had done wrong to deserve his treatment, and others still where she begged for his forgiveness, over and over and over again, like some weeping prayer.

And then it dawned on him.

John was _dead_.

He mused over this newfound discovery as he leaned back against her many pillows, working his mouth in thought. Had John been her boyfriend? Husband? Brother?

The Joker quickly ruled out John being a relative; there was no way he was related, not when he remembered back to how affectionately she had written about him. His eyes searched the rest of her room with a faraway glaze as he thought.

But then, when his eyes fell on her closet, a slow, devious smile slithered across his lips. People had a tendency to hide their darkest secrets within the confines of their closets—a private haven from the prying eyes of the outside world—and surely a dying woman of twenty-something had _some_ sort of incriminating past she was trying to bury before death.

Ha.

_Bury_. That was funny.

And maybe he'd find out more about John, too . . . .

The hinges creaked as the Joker pulled open the closet door.

Among the clothes, shoes, winter scarves, and disarray of hangers, there were a myriad of boxes on the top shelf. Most of them were see-through and plastic and filled with clothes, but there was one box—a smaller one made of cardboard—that caused the Joker to pause. It sat on the shelf above the clothing rod, and the Joker frowned in concentration as he retrieved the box. It was sealed shut with a piece of clear masking tape, and he peeled it off as the flaps of the cardboard box opened outwards.

Inside, there lay a clipping from a newspaper from the _Rhode Island Pos_t, an old one, too, from the looks of it. The edges were torn and the paper looked as if it had been crumpled and then smoothed over countless times. He pulled it from the box and then placed the box back on the shelf as he read, his eyes scanning the paper with unhidden curiosity.

'MAN SHOT AND KILLED BY GIRLFRIEND?' the bolded heading above the article shouted. The story detailed a brief and very vague murder of one Mr. Willston. The Joker hummed in appreciative interest, skimming the article and searching for something that might catch his attention.

_Too vague_, he thought. The article wouldn't even reveal the first man's name, nor the name of the killer's. What was the point of even keeping such a thing? He turned back to the closet and let the newspaper article fall to the floor as he reached for the box again. The weight of it in his palm reminded him that he hadn't discovered everything.

He tore away the white tissue paper that concealed the bottom from view and pulled out a very familiar item, an item that seemed to gleam at him in deadly warning.

It was a gun.

He recognized the model instantly—Smith and Wesson M&P Compact 40 caliber—and it was beautiful. It was a small gun, with only a three and a half inch barrel, but it was gorgeous to him all the same. It was smooth and black with scalloped side serrations and a pictatinny style rail; quite the expensive purchase. They ran at about 600 dollars, at the least.

He enjoyed the heavy weight of it in his palm, his finger resting along the smooth curve of the trigger, itching to pull it if only to hear the loud bang it would produce. He lowered the weapon to see if it was loaded, not surprised to find that it was not. She didn't seem like the type of girl to keep a loaded weapon in her closet, but then again . . . .

His attention returned to the article on the floor and he felt his brows pulling together of their own accord, realization gradually dawning on him.

_She_ had killed him. _Riley _was the one who had shot Willston. She was the alleged girlfriend who had killed him. Why else would she have kept the gun and the newspaper article together? It had to have been her.

Not only that, but he now knew Willston's first name.

It was _John_.

That was why she had begged for his forgiveness in her letters, because she had shot him.

_Oh, Riley, you've been a naughty girl . . . . _

The Joker felt himself smiling as he imagined the scene, wondering what could have possibly driven her to such an extreme.

And then he wondered if he could make her do it again.

What would it take to push her over the edge, he wondered. What would it take to make her _crack_?

Deep in thought, the Joker slipped the items back in their box and placed them on the shelf just as he had found them. Perhaps he wouldn't bring up the topic when he saw her. There were a thousand and one questions he wanted to ask her, but he would wait. Timing, after all, was everything. Perhaps if he waited, he could somehow use the questions and her consequent answers (or lack thereof) to his advantage.

Besides, he rather liked the direction their little 'relationship' was going. He was starting to think that the girl was even falling _in love_ with him. Which was stupid, really, but oh, how fun it was to string her along like the little lost soul that she was. People were so easily manipulated, like puppets on a string.

And that was the point of it all, wasn't, to gather all those strings together, and then cut them when people got too comfortable, or forgot their place in the world.

Maybe her string was one he wouldn't cut.

No, he would learn as much about Riley as he could. She had him intrigued, now, and he'd be damned if he wasn't going to pursue his curiosity as far as he could.

He left her apartment then, tired of waiting, and knowing he would come back later, with only one thought on his mind.

_My girl's a killer. _

The thought seduced him more than it should.

* * *

_**Author's Notes:** I hope you all will forgive me for the shorter chapter! I wanted to provide a glimpse of what's going on in the Joker's head, and give everyone a brief reprieve from Riley's thoughts. Also, to those of you who have expressed complaints about the Joker being out of character—I beg you to reconsider. The Joker's still got some cards up his sleeve, most of which have not yet been revealed but soon will be, in which case I ask for your patience._

_Also, I urge you to keep in mind that the majority of this story is told from Riley's point of view, meaning that the way she perceives things may not really be how things are. Our own expected perception of things often tend to warp reality, so for example, the emotions Riley sometimes thinks she's seeing in the Joker may not actually be his true emotions. Most of you have likely come to this conclusion already, I just wanted to bring it up in case some of you haven't. _

_Additionally, you guys are amazing! I am so flattered by all of your feedback and support; truly more than I could have asked for. This story has taken a turn I wasn't expecting, and all of your guys's support has encouraged that (and also made this story longer than my original five chapters!) What would I do without you!? If you're interested in seeing more, please feel free to let me know! _


	7. Chapter 7

When I returned home later that evening, I was, at first, oblivious to who had been traipsing through my apartment only hours before.

It was my second day back to work after the incident with Ben had transpired in front of the entire office, and I was still receiving furtive stares. Half-whispered gossip spun its way around my cubicle and throughout the entire floor, like spiders spinning webs in far-off corners.

For the most part, it was easy to bury myself in my work and ignore the chatter. I realized I didn't really care what my coworkers thought of me. I was the hot topic at the moment, but the water-cooler rumors would only last to the end of the week, as most rumors usually did.

Samantha, though, had wheeled herself inside my cubicle at the end of the day, once again wearing a ridiculous pair of pumps that were as tall as the scrapers outside my window. Her lips were colored her signature shade of blood red, and for a moment, I imagined a Glasgow grin stretching her cheeks wide, and black greasepaint surrounding her eyes, offset by a white face.

I shook my head, startled by the thought.

The Joker was having more of an effect on me than I thought.

"So..." she said, letting the silence stretch between us as she waited for me to give her my full attention.

I turned in my chair only a little to face her, hoping my shielded body language would convey the rest.

"Did you need something?"

Samantha shrugged, easy. "No," she said, and I watched as she picked up the tape dispenser on my desk that was shaped like a stiletto. A gift from a coworker. "That was quite something the other day, huh?"

Great. We were going to talk about the Ben Thing. Really, I was surprised she hadn't come to me about it sooner. I resisted the urge to rub my temples, tired of the subject already.

In lieu of a reply, I shrugged.

"You know... I went out with him once. Before I met Harry, of course," she added, raising a manicured hand as if to ward off the inevitable question I hadn't been intending to ask.

Her revelation came as something of a surprise. Even if Samantha wasn't my favorite person, no one could deny she was nothing if not head-over-heels in love with her husband, and faithful to boot. I cast a sidelong glance at her cubicle. It was a garden of color, with fluorescent Post-It notes from Harry covering every available inch of wall space, a vase of fresh roses next to her monitor, and various framed pictures chronicling her travels with her husband. They were smiling in every picture. She'd been with Harry for as long as I could remember, and gushed about him often and freely.

I turned back to her with a quirked brow. "You did?"

She sighed, nodded. "It was when I first started here, before you came along."

"Oh. Must have been a while ago."

"It was," she nodded. I watched the way her eyes seemed to flicker when she looked away, like she was recalling memories that weren't all that pleasant. She snapped her eyes back to me and her posture slouched a little. "Listen, I just wanted to say... well, I think what you did the other day took a lot of guts. Ben's a complete asshole and he deserved every word you said." She paused, like she wanted to add more but couldn't find the words. "I just wanted you to know that."

"Um. Thank you?" I stared at her, unable to hide my disbelief. "I mean, thank you. Without the question mark." I smiled, and maybe it looked a bit hesitant and unsure, but Samantha's smile was kind and confident enough for the both of us.

"Right." Her posture straightened and she wheeled the minuscule distance back to her cubicle, but not before laying a hand on my forearm and ducking her head close to mine to whisper. "Oh, and just between us girls... he _does _have a small dick."

I smiled to myself as the wheels of Samantha's chair skittered across the floor, and I was still smiling when I went back to my spreadsheets at the computer and began typing.

Samantha really wasn't so bad after all.

* * *

After work, I went to my doctor's appointment and called Nancy on the way there to reschedule our evening. I told her I'd been feeling really well the past few days and that I could take care of the cleaning and cooking myself.

That was a flat-out lie. My apartment was a mess. I hadn't cleaned it in days, and truth was, I felt like shit. I also hadn't made a proper meal for myself in weeks. In my health journals, I lied about what I'd been eating. Didn't seem like it mattered much anyways, not when death loomed at every corner, as morbid as that kind of thinking was.

I'd been canceling on Nancy a lot, recently, and the last time I'd seen her was when we had gone shopping together for a dress for my date with Ben. That felt like years ago, and I knew she missed me. I missed her, too. We almost never went this long without seeing each other, but I couldn't have her over, not when the Joker had a knack for showing up at the worst possible time, or when I least expected him. I was not about to put Nancy's life in danger because of my little... whatever it was with the Joker. Infatuation, if you would. Desperate Need for Companionship, maybe.

Maybe I could write a book about it before I died. 'How to Befriend Murderous Psychopaths and What You Need to Know.'

At the back of my mind, I knew that Nancy's safety wasn't the only reason why I kept canceling on her. And that was worst of all, because her safety should have been the _only_ factor, not one of five. The truth was, I felt afraid that if she came over, she'd somehow find traces of the Joker and know instantly that he'd been there, that he'd been sitting on that same spot on the sofa that she always liked to sit in when she came over.

Worse than my paranoia, though, was my guilt. Nancy was the sweetest, most self-sacrificing person I knew. She was always putting others before herself, and she did it so unconsciously, like it was second nature to put her own needs aside in favor of everyone else's. You didn't meet people like that very often.

And then, in comparison, there was me: selfish and self-serving and only out to fulfill my own egotistical desires and tanked self-esteem. If Nancy had known what I'd done, if she'd known that I'd served the most wanted man in Gotham dinner, if she'd know that we'd played Monopoly and talked for hours and were… maybe/sort of friends… I couldn't imagine her disappointment. She'd be so confused and hurt. _Why haven't you called the police, why haven't you turned him in? What's _wrong_ with you?_

She'd probably think I was a monster, just like him.

Maybe I_ was _a monster.

Sometimes I felt like one.

After an uneventful check-up at the doctor's office (nothing new to report, I was dying right on schedule), I came straight home and put on a pot of coffee. I needed some caffeine in my system to wake myself out of the perpetual pity-party I'd been throwing myself for the past two days. As I waited for it to finish, I undid the straps around my heels and tossed my jacket over one of the chairs at the kitchen table, glad to flex my toes. I was convinced that heels were designed by Satan to torture woman. Samantha might not agree, but she'd be the only one.

At the sink, I washed my hands and stared blankly out the window where the garbage man had his truck parked below and was emptying the large, green metal bin there.

It was when I reached for a nearby dishtowel that I realized there was a cup in the sink I didn't remember using.

And the only reason it struck me as odd was because I almost never used it. It was always at the back of my cupboard because the handle was chipped and the cup itself was an ugly shade of purple….

And that's when it dawned on me.

The Joker.

I paused drying my hands and listened for a moment, half thinking that he might still be here.

Slowly, I began to tiptoe towards my bedroom, stopping in the hallway to peer into the bathroom. I turned on the light and peeled back the shower curtain. Nothing.

In my bedroom, nothing had changed. I inspected my room with careful eyes, making sure everything was just as I had left it.

And everything was. The bed was still unmade, magazines were sprawled across the floor, and my vanity a mess from when I hadn't put away my makeup earlier this morning.

Was the coffee cup in the sink just a weird happenstance? Had I perhaps been so out of it these past few days that I'd forgotten that I had used it?

I pondered it as I stripped out of my clothes and pulled on a silk nightgown—coincidentally, the same one I had worn on the night the Joker and I had first met.

I thought back to how scared I had been, how frightened and terrified and completely _alive _I'd felt, every nerve in my body on fire. Nothing had ever felt so... _good_. The sheer energy he had exuded that night, the smoke that clung to his clothes and the weight of his heavy, black stare—it was exhilarating and exhausting and overwhelming and a thousand other emotions I shouldn't have felt at the time.

He had no idea what he did to me.

I stared at my reflection in the mirror as I took out my earrings and tucked them in my jewelry box. I wondered what the Joker saw when he looked at me, if he saw the same tired, depressed woman that I saw.

I was about to go back into the kitchen to retrieve my coffee when I noticed something askew in the mirror. Behind me, my closet door was open a crack.

It was almost _always_ closed.

"_No way... _"

Abandoning my reflection, I went to the closet and slowly tugged on the door, entirely unprepared for what I was about to find.

When the door opened, I screamed.

A full, head-to-toe skeleton was dangling from the clothing rod, courtesy of a rope tied around the spinal cord of the neck, just like a noose.

And I _knew_ it was real because of the traces of muscle and tissue that clung to its bone.

The stench was _maddening._

Stuck to the ribs on the left side, where the heart would have been, was a yellow note. I didn't dare touch it, and I put a hand over my mouth and nose as I leaned in closer to read it, my eyes wide.

_Looks like I'm not the only one with skeletons in the closet._

It was scrawled in black ink, in chicken-scratch. It looked like the handwriting of a five year old.

I knew it was the Joker instantly, and my mind was spinning as I reread the words in my head, over and over. What was he talking about? What on _earth_ could he be talking about?

I swallowed the panic I felt in my throat as I backed away, my hand slowly dropping from my mouth.

_Oh my God. _

He'd put a _skeleton_ in my closet, a _real_ skeleton.

Whose body was that? And how did he kill them?

Suddenly I wanted to vomit. A burning sickness crept up my throat and angry, disgusted tears stung at the back of my eyes.

I made it to the bathroom just in time to dry-heave into the toilet. My hair created a curtain around my face as I sunk to my knees and gripped the edges of the seat with a vice, sobbing into the dark.

_You stupid, selfish idiot. _

This was my fault. Somebody had died because of _me_, because the Joker had wanted to make some kind of point, some kind of stupid _joke_ because we were _friends_.

I don't know how long I sat there on the bath rug crying, but by the time I was able to pull myself together, the coffee in the kitchen had grown cold and the sky was blue and purple, the color of day-old bruises.

I drained the coffee in the sink and made sure the door and all the windows were locked.

In the bedroom, I closed the closet door without glancing at the hanging skeleton inside. In my mind's eye I could see it clear as day; I did not need a refresher.

I quickly retrieved my bedspread and a pillow, and, after pulling shut my bedroom door, made camp on the couch in the living room. There was no way I was sleeping in my bedroom when there was a skeleton hanging in my closet, like some god-awful Halloween decoration not yet tucked away with the others.

As I lay down and pulled my blanket up to my chin, the moonlight streamed in through the blinds across from me, like the long, pale fingers of ghouls. I thought about what to do.

I knew what I _should_ do, but I also knew I probably wouldn't.

I should call the police. That was what any normal, sane person would do. I should have them stage a stake-out in my apartment and catch the Joker red-handed, where they would then proceed to cart him off to jail and then court, and hold him accountable for his crimes.

But I couldn't. Even though there was a damn skeleton in my closet—the remains of a _dead body_—I still couldn't turn him in. I couldn't do it and I wouldn't do it and I hated myself for it more than I had ever hated myself before.

_He'll kill more people if you don't do something. You have him in the palm of your hand. _Do _something!_

But I _liked_ him. That was the only thing stopping me. I liked his company and the way he made me feel so alive. And it was so oxymoronic—a killer making me feel alive—but it was the absolute truth. There was a undeniable thrill to be found in not knowing if he was going to kill me, in knowing that every next second could be my last. He'd made me an adrenaline junkie without ever leaving my own home.

That night, I hardly slept at all. Every time I closed my eyes, I was plagued with images of dead bodies and flesh tendons and the bony remains of skeletons flashing behind my lids, inescapable night horrors. At three AM I woke with a jolt, shooting off the couch like I'd been struck by lightning. My forehead was slick with sweat and my legs tangled in the thick, stuffy comforter. I fought the blankets off and staggered to the bathroom in the dark, bowing low over the sink to splash cool water over my face.

I shut off the tap when I was done and closed my eyes, leaning my forearms against the countertop and laying my head there as I listened to the water gurgle down the drain and the steady thump of my heart.

I had to end this. I had to end this insane—friendship—with the Joker. It was sick and it was disgusting, and every time I thought of him, my skin crawled as if covered in mites and my heart burst like fireworks in my chest. How was it possible to feel such conflicting emotions towards another human being?

I sniffled and wiped the remaining water from my face with a nearby towel.

Maybe if I was lucky he'd forget about me altogether and I could go back to my miserable, self-depreciating, morally-stable life.

* * *

For the next few days, I didn't see the Joker at all.

It drove me _mad_.

He'd left a skeleton hanging in my closet that I didn't know what to do with, and it haunted my thoughts every moment of every day. Each time I stepped outside my door to leave for work, I felt nausea wash over me in waves of green. My vision blurred and my lungs constricted for breath, and I felt like everyone_ knew_. The second I stepped outside my apartment, I had opened myself up to become a target; I was the bulls-eye. My eyes darted away when they came in contact with a stranger's, and I avoided conversation and small-talk if at all possible. When one of my coworkers came to my cubicle to inquire about some paperwork, my hands shook at the keyboard. I hid them beneath my desk but kept my eyes glued to the screen as she spoke. For the life of me, I could not meet her gaze.

On another day, when a police officer on the street passed as I waited for a cab to take me home, I felt my knees go weak with panic. It was a wonder I did not collapse right there. My mind conjured a hundred ridiculous scenarios where I'd gotten arrested and brutally hauled off to a prison for a crime I didn't commit.

Except, I _had_ committed a crime, and that crime was not turning in the most wanted criminal in all of Gotham.

When a cab finally pulled up to the curb, I nearly tore off the door in my haste to get in, to hide from the prying, suspicious eyes of the city around me.

It felt as if even Gotham herself knew of my secret and had ordered the wind to whisper it into the ear of every passing stranger.

On the fourth day, even my apartment was no longer a safe haven, and my stomach had twisted itself into sharp little knots that poked and prodded at my ribcage with every move. I called in sick to work on Friday and hid myself beneath a mountain of covers on the couch, even despite the torrid heat that raged outside. I slept until late in the afternoon, tossing and turning and getting up only once to get a glass of water and use the bathroom.

_You have to do something. You can't just let that skeleton rot in your closet. Who knows if he'll come back to claim it? And what if this is all some kind of warning? What if he's trying to tell you he's going to kill you? _

Suddenly, I was struck with a desire to see it. I hadn't looked at it since the day I'd first seen it hanging there in my closet, and the urge to do it now was overwhelming.

God, this was so wrong. But what was I supposed to do? I couldn't get rid of it, couldn't just dump it in a trash bag and toss it out with the other disposables. Somebody would find it—the stench would give it away, if the weight of the bag didn't, surely—and then the whole building would be under investigation, and they'd just _know_ it was _me _and—

I stopped.

My breathing had gone erratic, and I paused halfway down the hallway, gripping the wall for support.

With the current way my life was going, I would probably die of a heart attack before I died of my disease.

_The Joker would probably find that amusing_, I thought as I opened the door to my room.

And then I screamed.

He was standing right _there, _hand poised as if he were about to open the door and let himself out of my room. I had beaten him to it.

I felt his eyes on my face and t took me a moment to gather enough strength to find words. I wanted to say a million things all at once.

"_You_!" I cried. So articulate.

"Me," the Joker supplied, matter-of-fact, standing tall above me and looking down at me as if I were nothing but a mere bug to be smashed beneath his boot.

Cradled by the edges of my doorway, I felt all my emotions—pent up since the last time I'd seen him—collide like a star burst inside me. Anger, excitement, fear, relief; all of it came crashing together into one giant mass of energy to give me the biggest adrenaline rush of my life.

"You!" I said again, this time with more authority, more power. In a moment of pure, adrenaline-fueled anger, my face twisted into a snarl. "What the_ fuck_ were you thinking?" I shouted, my voice coming out twisted and gnarled with hysteria. At the same time, before I could register what I was even doing, the heels of my palms were planted against the Joker's chest. I shoved him back with all the force I could muster.

The movement and force of it caught him so off guard that he went stumbling backwards into my room. I felt success wash through me for the briefest of moments, but it disappeared just as quickly as it had come.

And then I stood, breathing hard in the doorway. The Joker's eyes snapped to mine.

I watched the way his eyes flashed red with rage, and he looked like he was about to _throttle_ me. I took a step back instinctively, placing a hand to my chest as if the added pressure would somehow keep my heart from bursting forth from my ribs. Not likely.

The Joker's face broke into an ear-splitting grin.

"Look at you!" he hooted, anger gone. "My, my, what _balls_ you have." He seemed proud of this, emphasizing the _b_. "Who knew beneath that sick-girl exterior, you were just_ playing_ me all this time. What else can you do, sugar? What other _secrets_ are you _hiding_?

Here he grinned, wide and devious.

I felt like I was going to be sick.

"What's the matter, cupcake?" The Joker feigned an exaggerated frown, and I watched him move closer, slithering forward—snake-like in his movements—until he was just a breath away, crowding into my personal space. I kept my hands raised at my waist just in case I needed to use them. It was no secret the Joker moved quickly, efficiently, and when he stood this close, it was stupid not to be prepared.

He cocked his head at me, and even in the semi-darkness of the hallway, trapped between the doorway to my bedroom and the closed door to the office at my back, I could see the creases beneath his eyes, the smudged greasepaint.

"You don't look so happy to see me. You didn't like my surprise, baby?"

My anger had not deflated, and it flared even more at him calling me the pet name. It immediately brought back memories of Ben.

I stood up straighter and forced myself to keep my hands at my sides, to not push him again. "How could you do that?" I bit out. "You killed someone—for _me_—"

The Joker snorted. His eyes held no mirth. "You're flattering yourself again," he said, and his voice was flat. "Y'know, that's your problem, that's_ everybody's_ problem, they think it's aaaall about them. Me me _me_. Well you know what?" The Joker leaned in close, dipping low so our noses almost brushed. His breath was hot and rancid as it wafted across my face. His gaze was black. "Nobody gives a _f-uck_."

I swallowed.

I don't know if I'd ever heard the Joker say the word 'fuck' before, but the effect was jarring. His mouth seemed to savor the word, the way he drew it out and punctuated it in a way that made the hairs on my arms stand on end. I could not force myself to look away from him, and I felt my earlier confidence and aplomb flagging the longer I stared at him. The whites of his eyes had all but disappeared.

"You left a _skeleton_ hanging in my _closet_. What was I supposed to think?" I whispered, and only then did I avert my gaze. "Why would you do that? Why would you kill someone for—for some sick joke and then leave it here, to_ show_ me?"

The Joker cooed, all understanding and mock-sympathy. "Is that was this is about? Do you feel _guilty_?" The word tapered off his tongue slowly, reverently, like he loved the taste of it. "Do you feel guilty because it's your fault?"

I shook my head at him. My voice felt tiny and small when my reply tumbled out, and goose bumps pricked at my skin. "No, you did this. You did."

The Joker glowered at me. It was a moment before he spoke, drawing back a little and up to his full height to tower over me. "You're really not _getting_ this, are you?"

I clenched my hands into fists, and was just short of stomping my foot like a child. "I don't know what you're talking about!" I shouted, and I only recoiled a little when he gave me a sharp look, like I better watch myself. "Please just—please get rid of it. I can't—" God, now was not the time for tears to start welling in my eyes. My voice cracked. "I can't sleep knowing it's here and everywhere I go I feel like people are _watching_ me, like they _know _and it's driving me insane. You have to take it away."

The only one watching me now was the Joker, burning holes through my skin with acidic black eyes. I let his gaze rake over me freely—not that I could stop him if I wanted—and let myself fall back the two steps it took for my back to hit the door, needing something to support my weak limbs.

The Joker would laugh if I told him that I got weak-kneed every time he was around.

"You really don't know?" he pressed. "I woulda thought you'd have figured it out by now. You're a smart girl, after all. But we have time. All the time in the world, in fact. I'm not going anywhere, _you're_ not going anywhere." He licked his lips. "And neither is Bill," he said, inclining his head towards the closet in my bedroom with a sharp node. "Or maybe it was _Ben_?"

I felt the blood drain from my face in an instant. My heart followed, dropping to the pit of my stomach with a sick feeling of dread.

I hadn't seen Ben at the office ever since our little encounter. I had assumed it was because our paths hadn't crossed, or because he was avoiding me, but now...

"No, no you didn't," I breathed, hardly daring to believe his words. "If you killed him—"

The corner of his mouth upturned, just a little, like he'd caught me in his little trap; hook, line, and sinker.

"Oh, but sweetheart, I'm not so _sure _now," he feigned, brows drawing together in concern. "I can't really_ remember_. Maybe I've repressed the memory because it's so _awful_." For a moment, he dropped the pseudo-distress and spoke in a conspirational tone, lending his hand to the side of his mouth so the sound could travel better, like this was a secret that could only be shared with me. "Therapy can do that to you, you know," he whispered. "Make you forget, make you tuck away your secrets in those nooks and crannies in that little old noggin of yours." Here he tapped his index finger against my skull, just in case I didn't know what a noggin was. "Is that what happened to you? Did they make you _forget_?" He cocked his head and offered a sickly-sweet smile.

Rage flashed in my eyes. Why did he have to be so fucking cryptic?

I glared at him and clenched my fists harder. He watched me as I leaned forward, inclining my head towards his.

"Fuck off," I whispered to him, spittle flying from my mouth.

That was a stupid thing to say.

There was a half second where the Joker just looked at me, looked at me with a cold, blank expression, like I hadn't said anything at all.

Then his face twisted into an angry grimace and he growled—God helped me, he _growled_—and it sounded like it'd come from the jaws of some wild animal, sounded like every nightmare I'd ever had, like something so terrible it had been cast out of the depths of Hell itself.

He shoved me back against the door with a hand around my throat, forcing me to stand on my toes. I couldn't breathe.

"You_ reaaaally_ know how to push my buttons, don't you? DON'T YOU?" His breathing was ragged as he adjusted his grip, and my hands had flown to my throat in a futile attempt to pry his fingers away. He growled again, displeased with my struggling, and pulled back just enough to slam me into the closed door for a second time. It rattled in its frame. The knob dug into the small of my back.

"If you're going to kill me just do it!" I gasped. I was trembling as I watched his eyes linger on my fluttering pulse, the pale column of my bared throat and the strain of muscles there, pulled taut. "Go on," I urged, even as I struggled for breath. "Do it."

The Joker frowned. "Not if you're gonna _beg_ me for it," he snarled. Then he straightened, let me go with a shove that sent my skull cracking against the door. "You're better than that. And we're going to play a game."

That did not sound like something I wanted to be a part of.

I cried out when he snatched me by the hair, gathering the bulk of it into his fist and _pulling_, forcing me to stumble after him and into the living room.

"Let me go!"

He promptly dumped me on the couch. "Fine. You're let go. Now pay. Atten-_tion_," he ordered. I sat up, breathing hard, and watched him shove the coffee table out of the way. The rug bunched up beneath it as he pushed it towards the window. I didn't understand why he had done it until he was kneeling in front of me, down on one knee, like he was going to fucking _propose_ or something. His gaze was level with mine.

Then he smiled at me. The most lecherous, shit-eating grin I'd ever seen; blood red mouth stretched wide, fleshy, puckered scars pulled taut. There were crinkles around his black eyes and cracks in the greasepaint where slivers of pale skin sliced through.

"What are you doing?" I breathed, unable to look away.

The Joker was still smiling when he slid something cool and solid into my palm.

It was a gun.

My gasp was swallowed up by the Joker's voice.

"Sh, sh, sh," he cooed, and his large hands were cupping my face, brushing my hair back even as my own hands started to tremble. "Sh, sh. Daddy's right here."

"What is this? What are you doing?"

"We're playing a _game_," he said, just a touch exasperated.

I looked at him, at the gun, then back at him. Something told me the game was 'Russian Roulette'. I felt his hands on my face, thumbs brushing over my cheekbones almost tenderly, and I wanted to scream.

"I don't want to play," I said, and my voice shook along with my hands when I offered the gun back to him.

He didn't like that.

He shoved it back into my lap and forced my fingers to curl around the handle, making me grip it tight.

"Ah, ah. Not so fast, cupcake."

I looked at the Joker, wondered if he could hear the way my heart slammed against my ribcage as I struggled for breath.

I didn't think it end like this. Not with a bullet to the head. Maybe I naively thought my disease would take me before the Joker did, but I could see now that was no longer meant to be the ending to my story.

That was why I was so surprised when the Joker guided my hand so the gun was pointed at_ him_.

I let out a sharp breath as he forced me to nuzzle the tip of the barrel against his skull, just above his ear, until he was comfortable.

"What are you doing?"

He looked at me like the answer was obvious. I watched his tongue trace his lower lip. "I want you to shoot me."

I stared at him, at the slivers of fading sunlight that scattered orange beams across his neck and chest. "What?"

He moved forward, so the sun was a crooked, rectangular slit over his eyes. "I said, _I want you to shoot me_."

I felt his fingers crush mine as he forced me to grip the gun tighter. His eyes were narrowed, mouth pulled into a straight line.

"Come on," he murmured, and he lowered his head—the barrel following the movement—so he was staring at me from beneath his brows. "Come on, I want you to do it. I want you to."

I shook my head at him, hair whipping around my face. "No—no, I can't."

"Do it!" he shouted, making me jump in my seat. There was a manic gleam in his eye as he maneuvered my hand so my finger was pressed against the trigger. "Think about all the people I've murdered. All the_ innocent _little children and the happy couples who go to church every Sunday, and the single mommies and the helpless old lady who can't cross the street, and the _cripples_."

He was grinning at me.

I stared at him, open-mouthed. Guilt pooled like acid in my gut and tears gathered behind my eyes.

"I can't—I can't kill you!" My knees knocked together when the Joker grabbed my arm and gently urged me so I was sitting on the edge of the couch, forcing us closer. His exhales were hot on my face. He was still grinning.

"Do it. Do. _It_. I dare you."

I shook my head at him again, tears spilling over my cheeks, running down the curve of my nose to fall over my lips. I licked the taste of salt away and cried harder.

The Joker groaned suddenly, a full-body shiver wracking his frame. His free hand moved to grip my bare thigh, small as it was, fingers curling around the flesh there and instilling goose bumps in their wake. My mouth opened in a silent cry when he dug his nails in.

"Come on, I _want_ you to. Just shoot me. Think of all the lives you'll save. You'll be a hero, Riley." He breathed my name like a prayer. "Everybody wants to be a _hero_."

My finger trembled against the trigger. I squeezed my eyes shut and looked away.

"I won't do it!" I cried. "I won't. I won't do it!"

Suddenly, the Joker was ripping me towards him, pulling me forwards by cupping his hand around the back of my neck. I watched his throat bob as he swallowed. Then he brought our foreheads together and stared at my mouth.

"Why?" he breathed, and he was grinning like there was nothing to lose. "_Is it because you've done it before?"_


End file.
